JxHQ: Trip the Light Fantastic
by princessebee
Summary: A sequel to "Harley Quinn: Soliloquy" told through The Joker's eyes. Harley? Rehabilitated? Not if Mistah J has anything to say about it. This ain't fluffy, kids. It's nasty, brutal, hilarious and darkly comic. JokerxHarley. Strong themes. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note:**_

_This is a follow up to my first ever Joker/Harley Quinn fic: **Harley Quinn: Soliloquy** (accessible through my profile). It picks up pretty much where Soliloquy finishes, and reading Soliloquy will doubtless be helpful, but isn't absolutely crucial._

_This is more a relationship exploration fic than anything else, so please don't be expecting a lot of action or trademark Joker capers (unless you especially enjoy watching him unravel Harley's mind). It is told from Joker's POV, which is a very ambitious thing to do, to be sure. I'm also exploring the sides of Joker we hear about in the comics: that he can be playful and harmless, seductive and charming; but which we really haven't been seeing to great effect these days. My personal belief is much of his power over Harley is psychological and whilst there is physical violence it happens less than people think it does and his real abuse of her is the head-fuck she's constantly subjected to. Which, I might add, I also don't think is entirely non-consensual. He's cunning, shred, manipulative and loves his power over her. And he's capable of great subtlety as well as great ostentatiousness. I'm not sure how many chapters it will be, as yet, but it shouldn't be too long. _

_Many thanks go to zhinxy on livejournal. Through delicious discussions with her on Joker, Harley and our theories on their relationship, many of the ideas in this fic emerged. _

_There will be strong themes in this fiction relating to consensual domestic violence (yes there is such a thing), Dominant/submissive dynamics, sadomasochism and power exchange. You have been warned._

_I hope you enjoy it!_

**---**

Joker opened his eyes and breathed in.

At once a hundred different threads of thought began vying for his attention:

…_should've left a gift for Lexie, not really any way to show gratitude oh well I could always send him a bunch of pansies… heh…_

… _parachute silk! That would work. Perfect. Then all he needed was the…_

… _it was Night at the Opera you ignorant cretin, what do I have to hit you with a truck before, oh hahaha…_

… _it would only require the very slightest adjustment of one or two ingredients, a little peppering of adrenaline, a dash more of nitrous oxide and what a…_

… _I wonder what flavour jellybeans it tasted like, should've tried so long as it wasn't purple, they always make me sneeze…_

… _now you can study Shakespeare and be quite elite and you can charm the critics and having nothin' to eat…_

… _Betrayed rage suits Jason, makes his muscles all quiver, wonder if he and Bats have kissed and made up yet should drop them a card now what was the Victorian flower for I-forgive-you-for-making-me-go-splat…_

The sky above him was pink and pinned with dozens of tiny little holes. _Curious_, he thought. He wondered if he'd just been punched especially hard by Bats, or if he'd somehow ended up on another alien planet.

He sat up straight, feeling bedsprings give beneath him, becoming suddenly aware of the feeling of cotton sheets tucked in around his lanky frame. He was naked, and his knee was hurting. A lot. He ignored the pain and looked around him.

Pink, pink, pink. Everything was pink. It looked like puke, like the tongue of a happy puppy, like the soft, strange guts of an opened child. The odd sky above him was a mosquito net canopy, draped over the neat little double bed he lay upon. The bed was too short for him, his feet were right at the edge. He wiggled his toes, watching them move beneath the quilt. A jolt of pain moved through his leg. He had to wee.

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His knee twinged again and he felt a wave of irritation at it. _Shuttup_, he instructed his body, and it obliged. Then he padded off over the soft peach carpeting, scrunching his toes as he did so, because it felt good and he always liked to do things that felt good.

He opened the door of the odd pink bedroom and stepped out into the odd pink hall. He found his way to the odd pink bathroom and relieved himself, whilst examining his teeth in the little mirror that sat above the old-fashioned porcelain sink. One of his porcelain crowns was broken and he frowned at that. If there was thing he couldn't stand, it was a single flaw in his dazzling smile.

Now. To find out what exactly was going on.

He made his way back down the odd pink hallway, passed the bedroom and found himself in an extremely odd pink open plan living room with an equally odd pink kitchen beyond it. In the pink kitchen stood a petite blonde, chewing on a few loose strands of her hair, anxiously gnawing her lower lip while she watched the odd pink toaster. He squinted at her. Was that - why, yes it was! A smile spread up his face, feeling like the first rays of the sun. It was Harley.

He remembered then.

"Morning, Pooh!" he said cheerily and she jumped and shrieked like he'd kicked her, turned to him and shrieked again at his nakedness, leaping back and covering her eyes.

"Mist - J-Joker!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you were awake."

He was a bit perplexed. She usually tried to get him to wander around naked more often. Whatever was the matter with her?

"Where are my clothes?" he asked instead and she turned back to the toaster, pressing her fingertips on the bench, concertedly not looking at him.

"In the wash. I thought you would sleep later - with your leg and all."

"I'm cold." He pouted and fixing her eyes on the carpet she hurried through the living room.

"I'll get ya somethin'."

She slipped past him, as far from him as she could manage, practically sliding against the wall and he grinned. He wasn't sure why exactly she was being so reserved, but it was kinda funny to watch.

In the kitchen, the toaster pinged and two slices of brown toast leapt briefly into the air. He hoped she would be back quickly. Otherwise his toast would get cold and he hated it when his butter didn't melt.

He wandered over to the pink sofa where a rumpled up rug and folded pillow were, showing the evidence of where Harley's sleeping body had lain. He sat down in the groove she'd left and ran a finger over it, a little burring chuckle rising in his throat.

She came back in then, still looking anywhere but at him, her arms filled with an assortment of garments. "I'm afraid I don't got much, " she said, half mournful, half apologetic and he filed that away. No men's clothes. Not even any of his.

He grinned at her, his injured leg straight out in front of him and his arms up over the back of the couch and she began to lay things out on the armrest. He kept his eyes on her face and caught the quick glance she threw at him. She blushed deeply and then remembered the toast, hurrying over to the kitchen.

He probed his way through the pajama sets she'd brought out for him - flannel pajamas, all of them pink. He chose a pair covered in fat blue clouds and giggled as he put them on, behind him the scrape of the butter knife on his toast loud in the silence between them. The pajama bottoms stopped not far below his knees and the top left most of his forearms uncovered, and wouldn't really do up over his chest. The thought of how he must look made him laugh out loud and he caught Harley flinch as she came around to the couch, a tray in her hands. Now that he was more or less clothed, she seemed able to more or less look at him, though her glances were darting and shy. He caught them all though, especially the soft, affectionate one when she surveyed his pink-pajama-ed figure.

The tray contained orange juice and coffee, toast with butter and three types of jam, a sugar bowl and a handful of gummi bears.

"Where are my hash browns?" he asked pleasantly and she flinched back before squaring her shoulders.

"I don't keep them in the house. But I'll get some when I go out. And some other pajamas for you as well." He could hear in her voice she was trying to be firm with him. He had the urge to make her swallow the sugar spoon, but something was telling him now was not the right time. He decided to listen to it.

"Okay then, Cupcake." He responded easily and spooned jam onto his toast.

The butter had melted, and been spread to the very corners. That put him in a good mood at least. Harley continued to sit on the chair opposite the sofa, chewing at one fingernail and looking at him anxiously. It began to make _him_ anxious.

"Are you afraid I'm gonna stretch out your favourite jim-jams?" he queried playfully and she flinched, again.

"N-n-no," she stammered. "It's just - well, I wasn't expecting you. That's all."

He lifted his head up from his food and stared at her.

"Well, where else would I be?" he asked incredulously. "Yeesh, Harley. Use whatever's in that pretty little noggin' of yours, would ya?"

Then he licked strawberry jam off his lips and continued his meal.

**--**

_It took him a long time to realise Harley hadn't shown up for awhile._

_Their lifestyle naturally meant they spent as much time apart as together and he had become as accustomed to occasionally having to take care of himself as he had to her doing it for him. He'd gone many years alone before her inception, after all. But then she'd proven astoundingly adept at making his existence comfortable and easy, even if she was generally inept at much of everything else. _

_She made life simultaneously more pleasant and more irritating, which was a little bit like Bats, and that perturbed him, although he decided that vexed was as good a word to describe the emotion as perturbed, as perturbed suggested she might actually unsettle him and he wasn't going to give her that much credit. _

_But in those first heady, early days, when she'd been learning precisely what her place is his life was (and he'd often caught himself staring at her, wondering exactly what the hell it was as well - sure, he'd created her, but that didn't mean he wanted to hang her on _his _wall - couldn't she go and show off his handiwork elsewhere?) she had gradually begun to fall into a rhythm of picking up after him and anticipating his desires. It was the No Man's Land and there wasn't a lot else for her to do, after all, except for reconnaissance and gathering, but he had his mooks for that. That was before Pammy had powered her up of course, so her skills were relatively limited. Although strong from her years of gymnastics, she wasn't much of a fighter, so he'd quickly gotten bored with just lashing out at her. Not that she ever really struggled or made a move to stop him. Which was amusing, but got old pretty quick. _

_So instead, she watched him as he went about the days and moved quickly to make herself felt, without really being noticed. When he took off his coat, she caught it before it could reach the back of the chair, or the bed, or the table or whatever it was he'd tossed it towards, and hung it up neatly. Without realising he soon began just letting it drop from his hand, straight down. She always caught it._

_Then, she'd dart toward the table and pull out his chair as he was walking towards it, before he could so much as kick it out. So soon, again without really noticing, he just moved to sit down. The seat always ended up underneath him, so it seemed to work as a strategy._

_When he woke up she was waiting, with water for him to wash in, clean undies, and a miraculously pressed suit; even a razor and shaving cream. One time when she'd been out for a disgustingly long time, and he managed to get his trouser cuffs muddy, he'd tripped her feet out from under her and shoved her face into the same mud to remind her not to ever let it happen again. She'd apologised, and then somehow she'd had a bottle of the aftershave he favoured the next day. For some strange reason he thought the two events were connected, though what aftershave had to do with her face covered in mud he wasn't entirely sure. _

_And though Harley could be enormously infuriating, and needy, and clingy and demanding, she also made him laugh. Sometimes on purpose - she was actually not too bad at coming up with little rhyming ditties, simple but amusing - she also had rather good physicality and could play the clown quite well. And, of course, she was always striving, thwacking mugs with rubber chickens, fixing buckets of mud above the entrance way to their little lair, putting whoopee cushions on their chairs - nothing too original, but the effort was entertaining in its way. But other times he just had to look at her, and he'd start cackling. To think about her as she had been, prim, prissy, purposeful little Dr. Quinzel determined to make her name on him, and now she just sat there and stared at him with adoring blue eyes, all dressed up in skin tight spandex. It was freaking hilarious. _

_And after No Man's Land, she'd continued to be useful and loving and adoring and in his bed and he realised that he had an honest-to-goodness girlfriend. Not like that nutty Assistant D.A, or the salacious television producer, but an actual paramour who shared his bed and really dug her hands into his dirty dreams and ambitions. Who relished them, even. And even though she could be more than a little exasperating at times, he didn't mind having her around. It would be easy enough to kill her when she was no longer funny._

_And so life had trotted on, and he had been in Arkham and out of Arkham and Emperor of all the Universe and almost executed and certain he was dying and Lord of an Alien Planet and all sorts of other lovely little capers, and Harley had been on his arm throughout. Not consistently - she spent a lot of time in Arkham as well and sometimes he just couldn't cope with the thought of having to deal with her at the same time as playing one of his games, so he didn't always have her tag along. But you know. She was always _there.

_But then something changed. _

_He suddenly could never find anything. Things were always going missing, or vanishing altogether. When he hopped out of bed in the afternoon, or the morning or whatever it was and started chattering, no one answered him. When he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and waited, no one came to wrap their arms around his waist and tell him how beautiful he was. And when he decided on the details of whatever little gift he'd give Batsy this time, no one made them happen. No one arranged the thugs, the props, the equipment. And those far more infrequent times he found himself squirming with irritated desire, there was no eager pair of hands undoing the fly of his trousers. _

_He had to do it. All. Him. Self._

_Finally he'd realised. Harley wasn't there. _

_That's why everything was suddenly so awkward. Why he was so suddenly, so often, wet and cold and smelly. He knew how to do those things, of course. In fact, he was sure at one time or another he'd prided himself on how brilliantly he did everything._

_It was just it made Harley SO HAPPY to do those things FOR HIM and he was never one to stand between another and _their happiness_ unless of course it interfered with his own. But that was what was _so wonderful_ about Harley and that was that _her happiness_ was in actuality all about HIS. _

_So he'd gotten used to just letting her do them. _

_Except that she wasn't anymore. And she hadn't been, for a long time. He kept expecting her to show up, the way she did (and how could he turn her away when she figured out where he was? That was awful cute…) and then she didn't. _

_And he had to keep on getting his own meals and shave his own face and rinse his own shirt and socks and comb his own hair. And his back ached and his feet were sore and his nails needed clipping and he hadn't anyone to talk at or anyone to tell him he was wonderful in forever. And Harley loved telling him how wonderful he was._

_Blast it all, where was she? Why did she have to be so interminably vexing this way and never be around right when he actually did need her and only there when she was about as useful as a sackful of pigs' ears? Mind you, a sackful of pigs' ears could be awfully useful given the proper application; that much dead meat could pack quite a whallop…_

_Then the rather uncomfortable thought occurred to him that someone else might've claimed his little work of art. Now, he knew that originally he'd wanted it displayed elsewhere, prominently of course, and with his name attached, but not attached _to him.

_But she'd hung about so long he'd just gotten used to her being there. And she was something of a… well, he wasn't sure if _masterpiece_ was the right term, but well - she was definitely one of his favourite works._

_And thinking about someone else enjoying the sight of her every day made him feel quite furious. It was almost as bad as some lesser cretin trying to off Bats. _

_So he decided it was time to go looking for her. _

_As it turned out, he hadn't been near Gotham for a long, long while, for one reason or another. He knew he hadn't even been on earth for a time. And he went through a lot of makeup and bad clothing and resources and bodies getting back to the city, but back to it he had got._

_Finding Harley hadn't been difficult. He liked her new name. _

_Then he'd almost immediately got distracted when the whim had taken him to drop in on Penguin for old times' sake. He wasn't quite ready to let Bats know he was back in action just yet (it was important to always be at your very best when seeing someone you had a little… _history_… with), but discovering that Penguin had "gone legit" was too golden an opportunity to pass up._

_Unfortunately, at the end of it all, he'd been laughing so hard as he slammed down the gas, he'd lost control of the car and pranged it. Not badly. Just badly enough to jar his leg. The exact same leg that Jimmy had shot out that Christmas a few years ago. The exact same leg he'd broken that other Christmas with the Boy Blunder. _

_Yeah. Definitely time to catch up with Harley._

_He WISHED he'd had a camera when she opened the door. The _look_ on her face! And she'd actually _peed _herself. It was absolutely precious. _

_He'd wanted to laugh but then somehow they'd ended up in something of a clinching embrace and she was still all warm and soft and cuddly with the same fresh peaches and cream smell she'd always had and the same way of squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face into his chest, just below his sternum, which was where she came up to on him, tiny little thing that she was and he found himself very much looking forward to being taken care of again. The best part was he could feel her solitude, palpably. No one else was appreciating her, of that he was pretty damned sure._

_But after they'd kissed, she'd suddenly gone all funny, jumping away from him and going all red. It was cute and hilarious but when he'd moved toward her then, she'd actually put a hand up onto his chest and pushed him away, twisting her head as she did so. Hrm. _

_In the past, whenever she did this _'I'm cross at you for some inexplicable and probably insane reason'_ schtick it had always been easy enough to overcome. He would just push forward, put a little sugar in his voice, hold her tight and overwhelm her - give her just the right amount of coaxing and intimidation - and she'd come to heel. But he sensed something different about this time._

_She was meant to be sane, that was it. HA. He wondered who the hell had signed off on that certificate. Clearly, if they really believed that, they didn't know His Girl. Not like he did. Still, she seemed to be buying into the idea as well. It was going to take a little more delicacy than usual._

_When she noticed his limp, her face went curiously blank._

_"Oh", she said flatly, as though he'd done something wrong._

_What was wrong with her? She used to love looking after him! You think she'd be thrilled - not to mention grateful - he'd shown up in need like this, all ready to be taken care of. _

_But no - the ungrateful wretch actually then said, with a tremor in her voice: "You can't stay here." _

_HA. HA. HA._

_No, really. HA._

_"But Baby, I've nowhere else to go and I've missed you so badly," he entreated her. He exaggerated the limp a little and swept his fedora off so his hair mussed. He thought he had a big ripe plum of a bruise on his forehead too and he swept a hand close to his ear to draw attention to it. He could see it made her hesitate in her resolve. He slouched his shoulders, bringing his height down a little so he looked a bit more dogged, knit his brows together piteously and gave her his very best imploring gaze, leaning heavily against the wall, the blood on his glove leaving a little smear there._

_It wasn't his blood, but she clearly didn't realise that. Her little gasp and the way her hand leapt up a bit towards him let him know he had her._

**--**

After Harley left him alone (after making a lot of noise he didn't really listen to about how he couldn't stand in front of the windows or leave the house and how she'd only be a couple of hours and he probably shouldn't move too much about with his leg and she had plenty of DVDs so if he could just sit still for a little while she'd be back very soon and could he please please _please _not do anything that would make anyone suspect she was harbouring a notorious criminal like killing the neighbours, which hadn't even _occurred_ to him until she suggested it) he surveyed the little pink living room and decided to go exploring.

First, he picked up his empty plate and tipped the crumbs from his breakfast toast onto the couch, chuckling. Hopefully they would scratch Harley while she slept tonight. Heh.

Then he wandered back into the bedroom and stood for some time in front of the mirrors on her wardrobe door, laughing at the sight of himself in her tiny pink pajamas. Eventually he got an ache in his stomach and decided to amuse himself in other ways. So he started to go through her things.

Her bedside table was littered with pill bottles of various sorts - a rather dangerous looking mix of anti-anxiety medication, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics and sedatives. But no birth control. He looked in the drawer of the table. No condoms either.

He went through her wardrobe. There was nothing to indicate any sort of man had ever set foot in the place before him. No odd socks, not a single pair of boxers, not even a hanky. He went into the bathroom and fumbled through the things there. Yeesh! What was with all the pink? Even the toilet paper was pink. But then again, Harley had always had… obsessive tendancies. No razor or shaving cream, no extra toothbrush or toiletries. He supposed Harley could be screwing girls - he'd always suspected her and Pammy got up to various naughtiness when he wasn't around - but on the whole he thought it unlikely. But it was odd. Harley's interest in sex had always been - hyperactive. He hadn't even found a toy.

He found a journal Harley had clearly been instructed to keep by her psychologist and spent an enjoyable time reading the entries in there, laughing so hard his eyes watered, rolling around on the peach carpet. They were mostly dreams and anxieties, fears that she would never make any friends again, that she'd end up being a waitress forever, or that when she finally got up the guts to call her Aunt, her Aunt would disown her. It was good stuff and he was disappointed when he came to the end. He put it back carefully where he got it from and continued to make his way through her things. He rifled through all her drawers and cupboards, upending them and shoving the contents back in haphazardly. He didn't really care if she knew what he'd been up to.

Nothing. Not a whisper of red and black diamonds or a single domino mask. Not so much as a silk scarf of his, a sock, a pair of cufflinks or even that stupid lock of hair she'd kept after giving him a trim one time. It was most dissatisfying and he pouted as he went into her kitchen and opened her fridge.

Christ, what had happened to her? Celery and carrots, apples and bananas, organic granola and… and… _soy milk and tofu_?? Where were the sugar snaps? The soda pop? The frosted flakes, the peanut butter cups and starburst?

He became suddenly very angry at the Arkham doctors. They had broken his toy. He was going to have to put her back together from scratch. He made a mental note to do something very nasty to at least three of them next time he was back there. Preferably at least one who hadn't been on staff when Harley was released. Because that would be hil-arious.

There was nothing edible in the fridge at all so he picked up the packet of granola and went to the living room window that overlooked the bustling street. He knew no one would be able to see him through the gauzy pink curtains which fluttered there, and he took up fistfuls of the granola and began to toss it out of the window onto the pedestrians below, whispering as he did so: "Pow! Pow! Pow!"

He got several people good with the nutritious rain and when a few heads swivelled up towards the sky he dropped to the carpet and lay there on his belly stifling his giggles, even though he knew they couldn't see him, or even hear him above the roar of the nearby traffic, his heart racing at the thrill of being discovered.

When he thought it was safe he got up and did it again. The looks on people's faces were absolutely perfect. They looked so utterly confused, gazing first at the sky and then at the scattered bits of grain and dried fruit that clung to their clothing with absolute bewilderment. He soon had a stitch from laughing too hard, thinking of how they would go about their day telling everyone about the mysterious crunchy rain, pondering where it had come from. The images those thoughts brought up increased his laughter until he was once again rolling on the carpet, the box of granola spilled out beside him.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and wondered if he should do Harley a favour and do the same thing with all the vegetables in her fridge, when he caught sight of the strawberry-pink laptop sitting next to the television set.

She used Firefox and all her passwords were saved. He logged into her email.

It was mostly uninteresting. Lots of emails from someone called Amy, who seemed_very _annoying, about meeting and practice times and picnics. He checked her drafts folder. There was one there, addressed to someone named Guy. He clicked it.

The original message, from this Guy fellow, read:

_Hey amanda,_

_I know its been awile since we went out and all but I was kinda hopin you mite be up for a drink after a game one nite. Guess I figured u were goin thru stuff but id totally be up for talking it thruwith u sometime if you are._

_Your real nice Amanda. Give me another chance?_

_Xx_

_Guy_

He decided to kill Guy on principal for his atrocious spelling alone.

Her response, unfinished, read:

_Hi Guy,_

_Thanks for your email. I'm sorry I've been so distant at games lately, you deserve better than that. _

_You're a great guy. I like you a whole lot_. (Guy was so dead.)_ You know, in another time you and me could've been something hot. But the truth is I'm just not ready yet. I've just come out of a really intense relationship and I need time. _

_My ex is dead_(What?)_ at least I think he is… but it's complicated anyway. And I'm just dealing with it. I don't know what to do. Sometimes I'm so lonely I just want to grab you and kiss you and bring you home with me and take you around the world more than once or even twice. You're a hottie, you know that? _(Guy was going to be fed his own lungs before he died)_ I'm only writing this cos I don't think I'll ever send it. Ha._

_So, I guess, the real truth is, I'm still in love with my ex _(aaww)_. No, love isn't even the right word. I can't even put a name to what I feel for him. I want him back. But I also know it would ruin my life. _(She always did know how to make him smile)_ I've worked so hard for everything. But I'll never have anything like him again. So sometimes I think it would be better to stay alone. _

_But I'm so lonely, Guy. Even when it's a hundred degrees it's cold at night. I just want someone to hold me and I want to_

She'd stopped there.

He sat back against the couch and grinned. He was suddenly feeling very good about the future.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: **__Huge shout-outs and thanks to Gladrial10 for her fabulous help in proof-reading. Writing Mistah J is an intimidating experience and it's comforting to have someone act as consultant! Thanks bay bay! And if you haven't already, ya'll should go read her fics!_

**---**

He was annoyed when he woke up the next day to find himself still alone in bed. He had expected to wake up to find her curling herself around him, like a little fuzzy caterpillar on a leaf. But, no. She clearly wanted to play it tough.

At least he wasn't cold though.

Harley had found him flannel pajamas in different shades of striped purple. She'd bought him green socks as well, and a couple of pairs of dark trousers (he always had to have his custom-made and dyed, they never did do the styles and colours he really liked for the hoi polloi) as well as a few cotton shirts in shades of green and orange. The shirts weren't too bad. Still, cotton. He hoped this little farce wasn't going to take too long.

But even though Harley had obviously spent a great deal of time and care picking out things he would find bearable to wear, she marched in with a determined little tilt to her chin. Waw. He'd grinned at her from where he had been sitting innocently on the couch, watching her DVD of _Singin' in the Rain_ (he loved Donald O'Connor in that film, and Jean Hagen was seriously hilarious), and batted green-lashed eyes. Her step faltered just a little.

Of course, he had put her laptop carefully back where he had found it. Quite precisely. He didn't mind her knowing he'd been through her drawers (and he was going to have to ask her about the surprising amount of outrageous lingerie he'd discovered, in addition to a dozen or so pairs of stiletto-heeled stripper shoes), but there were a few cards he was going to hold close to his chest for a little while.

As soon as she'd given him a pair of pajamas, he'd ripped them out of the plastic packet and divested his long body of her little set. Once again she'd blushed and turned away quickly, but he'd noticed her sweep a quick glance up and down him and he took his time dressing, unable to help preening a little.

While he was occupied doing that, she took the paper bags of groceries over to her absurd pink kitchen (she had a pink egg whisk! And people said he was crazy!) and began to unpack them.

His eyes had lit up as he watched her pull out packets of lollies, tubs of ice-cream, tubes of cookie dough and other yummies. Best of all was the box with the red foil cursive script: Betty's House of Pies. He had wondered which one of his favourites she'd gotten him and resolved to pretend that whichever it was, it was the one he wanted even though he was sure it wouldn't be. Sweeten her up.

The silence coming from her had been odd.

At first he couldn't figure out why it was so unusually peaceful being so near her. Then he'd realised she was keeping her lips pressed tight together. In the past she'd always been yammering away at him, or humming, or singing, or chirping, or sighing, or whining or making some sort of noise guaranteed to drive him somewhat nuts.

Her silence was… well… disquieting.

She'd quietly unpacked the groceries and then set about getting him dinner while Donald O'Connor sang _Make 'Em Laugh_ in the background _(completely brilliant the way he kept upping the stakes in that scene…)_ He slumped forward, resting his chin on the back of the couch and watched her interestedly as she went about putting a potful of water on the stove and opening a tin of tomatoes. She concertedly did not look at him.

It was most ungratifying.

"Ouch!" he yelped suddenly and made a grab for his leg, realised he went for the wrong one and quickly corrected himself just as Harley looked at him with ill-concealed anxiety.

"What is it?" her voice wavered and he drew another imaginary score on his side of the board.

"Nothing," he dismissed it with a wave of his hand, rubbing his knee carefully with the other. "Nothing at all. Just a little twinge."

She'd come around from behind the bench and had raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure? Ya need a pain killer?"

"No, no, please, Baby, I don't want to bother you." He tossed his hair backwards and turned his face from her, the very picture of martyrdom, keeping just enough of a wince to make her worry.

She was silent for a long moment. Then she finally said:

"You don't have to play these tricks on me, Joker."

_Ooh, the game had just got interesting. _ Joker was impressed. He hadn't expected sane Harley to be shrewd Harley.

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you weren't ignoring me." He let the full brunt of his frustration show, dropping the honeyed tones he'd been keeping. Why didn't she want to talk to him? He was pretty sure the last time he'd seen her he hadn't so much as backhanded her, or left her to Batman, or even shouted at her for a few hours (or minutes, whatever).

"I'm cookin' the dinner," she stomped back around the bench and dumped a load of pasta into the boiling water, pouting. "Ya can stay here another night, Mis - Joker, but tomorrow mornin' you gotta go."

He had to grip the sofa cushions to stop himself from lurching over the bench and shoving her face first into the bubbling pot. He gnashed his teeth and rolled his eyes at the air for a moment before easing himself back into an ingratiating smile.

"But, Pooh, where am I going to go?"

She slammed the tomato tin back down onto the bench and swept a handful of mushrooms into the sauce. "Ya got lotsa places! What are you talkin' about? There's plenty of holes you can go crawl into - why'd you have to come to mine?"

"I already told you, I missed you." He had to catch himself. That had come out more like a growl than a placation. Sheesh, what did she want? He sugar-coated his voice again. "C'mon Harley baby, let's work this out."

She stood up straight, rested her hands on the bench and lifted her little chin into the sky. "My name is Amanda." She said primly.

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

Harley looked indignant, of course, but her chin wobbled. Just a little tighter…

"All I want to do is sit down with my girlfriend and work things out," he said in as reasonable tone of voice as he could muster and Harley tightened her little hands into little fists.

"I'm not your girlfriend anymore." She said firmly and his eyes boggled slightly.

"Since when?" He said disbelievingly.

_"Since three years ago!_" She screamed, actually _screamed_, suddenly losing her composure, stomping her foot and flinging her arms out to the sides. He felt a bit bewildered. Is that why she was so upset? Best get to the bottom of this…

"Baby, what are you talking about? I never dumped you." He cajoled. It was true. He never actually _dumped_ her, he just… _controlled_ her with strategic abandonment now and then. She shot him a glare full of rage and pain.

"You vanished!" she spat accusingly. He sat back against the couch cushions.

"Did I?" He queried. Had he? "Well, maybe I did."

She was silent for another moment, her eyes fixed on the bench beneath her fingertips, and when she spoke her voice was low and dark with something broken. "I thought you were dead."

"Maybe I was." He mused, scratching his chin and she glanced up at him again. He pressed on. "But c'mon, Pumpkin Pie. Daddy's back and everything can go back to normal." Hopefully this was all it was going to take. He was finding this whole debacle very tiresome. He thought he'd done very well to have a real "relationship" conversation with his dame, but he really felt they'd covered the basics and should move on.

But, no. Not his Harley. Sigh.

"The only reason you came here is because your knee is busted and you think I'm gonna wait on you hand and foot!" She said accusingly, her eyes fixed off to the side, unnaturally bright.

He lifted his hands up in confusion. _Yeah? So?_ The gesture said. After all, isn't that the way it had always gone before? He always thought she _liked_ that. And he liked it too. That's why they were_ so_ _good_ together.

Harley gave a little scream and turned back to the stove, lifting the pot off it and pouring its contents rapidly into the colander sitting on the sink. He heard her stifle a sob. Good heavens, why was she making such a drama out of this? And furthermore, what was she cooking? She'd always been a lousy cook. Why couldn't she just have got Chinese delivered or something? He worried about his stomach for a few seconds then debated how to move forward. He could kill her, there was _always_ that option.

But it'd been so long since he last saw her and he felt like playing with her first. If she ever got over this little tantrum, that is. It was very quickly becoming extremely boring. He could get up, slap some obedience and obsequience into her. But that was - well. It was very crude, wasn't it. It was really more a Killer Croc kinda thing. No, he'd employ a little more delicacy for now.

He assumed a deeply wounded look and placed a hand upon his chest.

"Oh, Pooh, you don't really think I'm just here to take advantage of you, do you?"

"No." she snapped, her back to him as she dumped the pasta into two plates and shovelled the sauce on top and he felt his brows lift. "I _know_ you are."

Then she whirled around again and folded her arms, pouting at him.

"And you have to go tomorrow. I have a new life now. A new career. And - and a new boyfriend." She blurted out and he felt his features settle into a long, nasty smile. What a little liar.

"Do you?" he hissed, and she faltered, before nodding determinedly.

"Yes. I do. And he'll be here tomorrow night. We're going out. It'll be our six-month anniversary."

"Oooh, how sweet!" he clasped his hands beneath his chin and fluttered his eyes at her, grinning hugely. "And what are you going to give _Guy _for his present? A taste of your _special_ cream pie?"

She had gone white and stepped back from the kitchen bench.

"Ho-how did - did - " she stammered and he swivelled his body around on the couch, lifting his legs up onto it and folding his arms behind his head.

"Oh, I know all about you and dear, dumb Guy, Honey Cakes." He sneered. "Including the fact that Guy has been left somewhat - hrm - hungry? Is that accurate? That's not like you, Harley-Pie. In fact, if I recall correctly you were always a little too keen to share a slice. What's happened?"

Tears were rolling down her red cheeks by then, but she was silent about it, jerking open the cutlery drawer and withdrawing utensils, slamming the bowls onto a tray. He watched her through narrowed eyes. There was something very childlike about her when she cried. Like he'd taken her favourite toy off her and was holding it high above her head while she strained to reach. He couldn't help but enjoy it.

He decided the hell with it all. He might as well enjoy the ride. The very fact she was still fetching his dinner (which he hoped would be edible) indicated it was only a matter of time… time…

Time! He pouted. Time, what was it good for? Time was only good for a countdown. Or to measure the distance between the premiere and the grand finale. Or assessing how long it would be between him kicking off one of his little capers to dear old Bats showing up. Right then, time was serving no useful purpose and he sorely resented its lingering, like a redheaded stepchild, between him and his little pet.

Couldn't Harley _do_ something about it? Isn't that what she was good for? Doing things that made his life more comfortable? Ah, but that's what it was all about, wasn't it? Trying to cajole Harley into doing something about it.

There was something very wrong with the whole scenario, Joker realised. He _should've_ just dumped the boiling water on her. He _should've_ just hit her, long enough and hard enough until she realised which way was up and who was Boss. For that matter, she was right: there _were _lots of places he could go. Why _didn't _he?

Now where was that sugar spoon? Maybe he should just shove it down her throat after all.

As she placed the tray with his food on it onto his lap, a couple of tears landed with a splash on his hand. He lifted it to his lips and licked them off, savouring their taste. Mmmm. _Rich and full-bodied with piquant flavours of broken heart and just the merest hint of agony_, he thought to himself and wondered if he should share the wit with Harley. He opened his mouth to do so, but she'd left the room.

He shrugged and sat back up, about to take a few mouthfuls of his sloppy meal, when Harley came storming back into the room, panting heavily, clearly very distressed.

"Ya went through my things?" she gasped and he stared at her.

"Did you really think I wouldn't?" He enquired with equal incredulity and it deflated her shock. He lifted a hand, making a delicate gesture with his long fingers. "I wanted to see if you had any mementos of me lying around. That's not unreasonable, is it?" He sniffed and pouted. "I was very hurt not to find anything, Harley."

He saw it then. She placed a hand just below her hip, almost on her crotch. She did it reflexively, as though checking if something was there. _Bingo_, he thought. Heh.

She wiped her face with the back of one hand and stared at him mournfully. "Why are you here?"

Her voice was so little and broken he had to bite back the smile. Instead he put his meal down on the coffee table, stood and walked over to her. She took a step backwards, her forehead creasing, strands of wet blonde hair clinging to her cheek, but he reached out and took her shoulders in his hands and squeezed gently.

"You know why." He intoned softly, his purple gaze boring into hers. And the words were unspoken between them: _You belong to me. You're mine._ He felt like her eyes were soft wet puddles his were stomping in, punching through their thin veneer to the gooiness of her brain below like bullets. She chewed her lower lip and he wanted to bend over and join in, nibble into it and through it. _Not yet, not yet_ he told himself. _Patience. It's not going to be that much longer. _

It couldn't be much longer.

Because if it was, then he was going to have start asking himself why he hadn't just shot her in the face yet.

And he never liked having that conversation with himself.

"I need to eat, Harley." He reminded her gently, squeezing her shoulders a little tighter. "And so do you."

And when they'd finished, he'd gone into her bedroom and shut the door. He felt her staring after him as he'd gone and knew she'd be sitting there for a while, staring glumly down the hall, and wondering why he hadn't kept trying to bamboozle her. The thought made him chuckle. There was always tomorrow.

And tomorrow had come and he was still in her bed alone, and it looked like he had another day's work ahead of him and he was annoyed.

**---**

_In the beginning it was mostly to keep her satisfied and quiet. The damn woman was insatiable! He had to find the balance though. If he gave her what she wanted once at breakfast, she'd be back for more come lunchtime and if he acquiesced then, bedtime would have those grabby little fingers toying with the waistband of his pajama bottoms. So it was a delicate enterprise, finding the mix between knowing when to give in and when to knock her away so that she would pester him as little as possible._

_He experimented with keeping her hungry all the time but as it turned out it made her harder to control, as well. A satisfied Harley was a docile Harley and a docile Harley was bearably useful. It didn't take much, after all, though he really couldn't understand what people's fixation on it was. He found so much grander pleasure in so many other things. He would have to show Harley how to do that. He could see the potential in her to do so. She'd gotten off sucking a loaded machine gun for him once. That had been kinda hot, actually. And it demonstrated this daffy skirt had plenty in her still be to shaped and moulded. He could look forward to that._

_But before he really figured out how to play No Man's Land, there had been lots and lots of long, drawn out, boring periods. Since screwing was a rather pleasant experience, it had perhaps happened a little bit more than he really intended. If he gagged Harley and tied her up so she couldn't move or talk, looped a belt around her waist to hang onto and shut his eyes he could just pretend he was fucking a hole in the wall. _He _never felt desire for anyone or anything after all, not in this coarse, common, pedestrian sort of way. He was just killing time. More like masturbation really._

_He could still feel her getting off, though. It was very distracting. It reminded him he was doing something that might be considered an exchange of desire with another human being._

_But then, Joker knew there was still some things that bound him to the mortal world. His ability to bleed, was one. And to piss and shit and vomit. _

_And another was this - this - irritating, aggravating little itch that would flare up every now and again. Not too often, mind. But occasionally, and usually with the first light of day. Most of the time he was able to ignore it and move onto important things, but sometimes it was really very insistent. If he was right in the middle of a caper he generally found it could be satiated quite sufficiently by whatever it was he was doing. But in Arkham, in the middle of the night, with absolutely nothing else to do - it could get very demanding. _

_But on the whole he could smother it. It was more a tickle really. _

_But then, when Harley entered the scene - suddenly that itch began scratching with alarming regularity and ever increasing insistence. It was, in its nature, very much like Harley herself, demanding, insistent and indefatigable, so that he began to think the itch and Harley were, in actuality, one and the same. Which made him wonder if he'd actually, at some point, turned the itch _into_ Harley and she was the embodiment of all that distracted him._

_Beyond No Man's Land, he thought there wouldn't be any reason to overindulge her, except enough to keep her quiet. But he'd unexpectedly discovered sex was a rather wonderful way of exploring her devotion to him. It was just so important to her, and she became increasingly malleable and accommodating during the act and eventually he got swept up in the experimentation of it. Harley was such a wholesome little thing, with her little blonde pigtails and big blue eyes, but all she really wanted was to make him happy and she'd do any nasty little thing he requested in order to do so._

_It was yummy, how much she'd give to him, positively gratifying to see how much pleasure and ecstasy she gained from giving into his will. How she moaned when she bled and purred when he hit her, or squeezed her or scratched and bit her. _

_He could push and push and push and she'd go further and further, her eyes rolling back in her head with bliss, her muscles tightening around him as he pushed the breath from her throat, leaving behind a delicious necklace of purple bruises. _

_And she made the most lovely little squeaks. _

_It was intoxicating, after a while. _

_It became more and more interesting, especially as he moved on from mere physical brutality into toying with her mind more and more. She didn't flinch from him. Her heart beat frantically beneath the palm of his hand, he saw the sheen of fear in her eyes, and yet she gave of herself so willingly. She took pleasure in it, pleasure in seeing him gratified. She delighted in his mischief. _

_How far would she go? _

_He couldn't always resist trying to find out. He'd gotten so used to people terrified of him. Of running from him. Of screaming at the sight of him. Of moving quickly away from him. Of flinching from his touch, or even just the raising of a finger. Of doing whatever they could to avoid his attention. He loved it, there was no question in that. In fact, he was practically _in_ love with it. It was so delicious to have that much power over people, to walk into a room and smell the fear, like arousal, on the air. The quivering bodies, the strangled gasps, the way people's foreheads creased and their mouths dropped open into little o's, the choked cries of 'Oh my God!'_

_But it was different with Harley. It always had been. She was afraid of him, but that fear drew her _to_ him, rather than away. She was completely in his thrall, and delighted to be so. From the very first time he'd laid his hands on her throat at Arkham, she'd been aching for his touch. The power he had over her was an entirely different kind and he hadn't experienced its like before. She was a masochist like no other because this was edge play without the eventual limit. _

_He didn't even have to restrain her. She lay there, no matter how much what he was doing hurt, and let him do it, opening herself to him, becoming more and more delirious with bliss and love the more it hurt, the further he went. Swearing herself, her undying love, her utter devotion. _

_It was like a reflection, really, seeing his power over her in this way. So in that fashion he transformed the aggravating itch into something more deliciously bearable. And from there it became blissful._

_He preferred being able to see her face. It was like feasting on her, watching the myriad expressions flicker over her features, knowing it was he that caused them all. He insisted she keep her eyes open, and what he saw in their depths made him want to devour her whole. It delighted him. Thrilled him. Made him feel such deep satisfaction with his own brilliance and power that he felt a little frenzied (haha). It was especially delicious if she was crying, or he was choking her, or she was saying something especially shameful and humiliating ('don't make me kill her puddin'!', 'but you would, wouldn't you if I really wanted you to?', 'yes, yes I would, but please don't make me!', 'say it again baby', 'I'd kill her for you, if you really wanted me to…')_

_But then, and this was absolutely the worst, most horrendous of all things to realise, sometimes he did it just because - because it just. Felt. Good._

_It was a disturbing thought, an unsettling acknowledgement. But then, if Joker had lived his life by any credo, wasn't it - if it feels good, DO IT?_

_Worse still, as the years passed, this became more and more the reason for doing it. And it began to happen more and more frequently._

_Of course, he'd tried to deal with the problem rationally. _

_But she'd survived._

_The little brat. She'd survived. _

_It became a necessity to deliberately spend time away from her. Once or twice he'd given the cops an anonymous tip-off when she'd gone out to do an errand for him, and other times he just 'forgot' to tell her where he'd moved the hideout, or to open her cell on the way out of Arkham. _

_She was too damn clingy anyway, it would build character for her to spend some time alone._

_And once he was out there with all of Gotham his stage, stretched out before him like the promise of a never-ending tomorrow, he usually forgot about her._

**---**

No one phoned and left messages for her. There were none on her answering machine.

He got her laptop out again and checked her bookmarks. There was a forum there, for women who had survived abusive relationships. He'd snickered as he brought the page up. Her account was logged in. He began to go through her private messages.

So many sad stories, so many the same. It was positively monotonous, in fact, just how many of the women she had exchanged messages with sang a similar tune. He clucked his tongue and shook his head at the mind-numbing stupidity of the great unwashed. The ultimate pointlessness of their faith and trust in each other.

Harley had left the house sometime earlier in a tiny pair of pink shorts with paw prints on either bottom cheek and a little pink crop top with the word 'JOCK' printed across the bosom. Going to training, she'd said, nervous and not looking at him. She wouldn't be too long.

She'd already been gone far too long. But as he clicked into her forum inbox, he came up with a way to amuse himself.

There was an unread message in the list. From someone with the username _nolongeravictim_.

_Oh honey, _Joker thought to himself as he opened it up, _no such thing, in this wretched life._

The message read:

_Mandy, I need your advice. Stu came over last night. He brought flowers. He said he's sorry. He cried, Mandy, he actually cried. He got down on his knees and wept and begged me to forgive him. He said he'd never do it again. I don't know what to do! It's been so hard since he's been gone. And he was so sweet. He said he's in therapy now. Got a steady job again. I don't know, though, I mean… I was in hospital a week last time. But I think I still love him._

_I could tell he really meant it._

_Mandy, what should I do?_

_- xxx bett_

Joker cracked his knuckles and hit _Reply_.

_Bett. Sorry it's taken me a while to respond. I had to really give a lot of thought to this issue so I could be sure I was giving you the right advice._

_My gut tells me you should give him another chance. If he actually cried, then he's clearly ready to change. If he's got a steady job he's probably not drinking anymore, right? _(an educated guess on Joker's part) _Or at least not as much. And with your love and support I'm sure he'll kick it altogether. From everything you've told me it really sounds like you two were meant to be together. And obviously he's realised that. _

_Go call him, sweetie. I'll support you._

_Your loving friend always,_

_Mandy_

Joker was giggling insanely as he hit _Send_.

He was careful to uncheck the _Save to Outbox_ box.

There was another message there that Harley hadn't responded to. His eyes lit up when he read this one.

_Mandy, I don't know what to do!! I'm still trying to work things out with Jonathon but he's just so insanely jealous! The other day I just said a friendly hello to the mailman and the next thing I know Jonathon is screaming at me that I'm a slut and a tramp. He didn't hit me but he broke my mother's antique spode teapot while he was slamming around the kitchen. He said it was an accident but he knew how much it meant to me. And I got so scared. I mean he just got so angry. It just seemed like such a little thing… but maybe I was giving off the wrong impression? I'm worried about the kids. You got any advice? _

Unfortunately this lovely young lady, username _midnightdreams_, had not signed her name. Joker tapped his lip thoughtfully for a moment but decided it was too good to pass up and hit _Reply_ anyway.

_Relationships are about compromise, you know? He's making an effort to change and if you really want things to work out, maybe you should too? It's up to you sweetie, of course, and I'm here for you no matter what you decide, but maybe it isn't the right time to go around flirting with other men. I know it can be tempting sometimes to want to make your fella feel a bit jealous but you're both at such a vulnerable time in your relationship – can you blame him for getting angry? Really? Wouldn't you get angry if you caught him checking out some other dame? If anything, him getting so mad proves how much he loves you and how invested he is in the relationship. _

_Why would he hurt the kiddies when he's got you for a punching bag - - _

Oops! Getting a bit carried away there. Joker deleted the last line and decided to finish it there.

_Love you always, Mandy_

Aw!

Harley would be so proud of him! He was being so productive!

Just a few minutes more, then he'd go and find something else to play with.

Her outbox yielded far more interesting results than her email had.

_To be honest, Kathy, I have a little bit of an issue identifying myself as a victim, ya know? I mean, that's what the Doctors all told me, that I was sucked in and manipulated and fell prey to Stockholm Syndrome, that I suffered from Hybristophilia. Fancy way of saying I was used and abused._

_And I'm not saying our relationship wasn't messed up, that it wasn't seriously unhealthy… I guess I'm just saying… it wasn't like I didn't know what was goin' on. Like I didn't enjoy it._

_Ya know?_

_Makes me feel real bad, to be posting here, sometimes. Making out like I'm one of you gals, who really were subjected to non-consensual violence and abuse and total scumbags, who really have suffered so much… feel like I'm cheating you all, in a way. Like I don't belong._

_But I don't know where else I do belong._

_I got more fulfilment and satisfaction out of our messed-up relationship than I got out of anything else in my life. Even as… as UNfulfilling and UNsatisfying as it was. It… it felt more real, more joyous, more all-encompassing than anything else I've ever known. And it was addictive._

_Ya know?_

_I was looking up some BDSM communities the other day, trying to find out if anyone there could say anything similar, find someone to relate to, but it just didn't feel right. I don't know a whole lot about that scene, but I know that I guess the basic principals are the same… except, with us, it was REAL. It wasn't this… this… negotiated, calculated, totally self-aware, self-conscious, little played out piece of theatre._

_It was for real. It was for life. For death. All the way._

_I know that sounds scary. And I guess it was._

_But God. It felt so wonderful, too._

_But it ruined my life. I mean, I had everything before it happened. A fantastic career, snazzy salary, respect, a 401 k… I had it all. And I gave it all up. I became a slave for him… there was nothing left of me. _

_Now I'm trying to put it all back together and it's just so darned hard. _

_Sometimes I wish he'd just come back and take it all away again. Life was so much simpler._

_You wanted the truth? Well, that's it Kathy. That's the truth. _

He felt positively giddy. Harley couldn't have written him a better love letter if she'd tried. And she had tried in the past. Why hadn't she just written him something like this? It really took him back to the first heady days they had together, at Arkham, when she was so determined and he was so delirious. She wanted to unlock his mind and he wanted to unravel hers. It had all been _so_ exciting. Reading this little missive to the bruised and battered Kathy brought it all back, reminded him of the glorious sensation of anticipation he'd felt before heading into sessions with her, having spent the night prior carefully determining exactly which button he'd push that day, which little vulnerability to press upon…

He sighed happily and pressed a hand against his chest, where his heart thudded beneath his jim-jams. His little Harley-Girl.

He leapt up from the couch and spun around in her little pink living room, chuckling merrily to himself. Happy days were here again! La la la laaaa… He went over to the brass pole fixed into the ceiling and the floor in the centre of the room and swung around it. He wondered what it was for. Maybe it was a piece of extremely post-modernistic art? He would ask Harley about it later.

He danced over to her fridge and pulled out the cake box. She'd gotten one of Betty's fabulous Carmine Coconut Creams, which really was one of his absolute most favourites, so he hadn't needed to pretend when she'd presented it. She'd even been doing a few cooking classes and though she'd never be a great cook she'd improved from godawful to edible.

He had taken a tentative mouthful of the pasta, ready to swallow without chewing so as to avoid his tastebuds becoming too saturated, but then had thrown his arms up in the air, quite delighted to find the food, if not delicious, then not absolutely disgusting. Then he had began shovelling food into his mouth quickly. And although they hadn't exchanged a word during the meal, (for which he was intensely grateful, maybe after all these years she was _finally _beginning to get it) Harley had watched him, all too clearly gratified, for a few moments before catching herself and beginning her own meal.

He balanced the Betty box in one hand and scooped mouthfuls out of the pie with the fingers of his other, keeping the fridge door propped open with one leg and examined the contents. _Much _improved over the day before. There was leftover pasta in the fridge there, but there was no way he was eating it a second time. It had been bearable, but he wasn't going to push his luck. That made him think – hrm, better not let her cook a second time tonight. Now if he could just… just think back… focus his thoughts _(hat trick holiday… why didn't he win the Oscar, philistines… a thousand dead that had been like honeyed wine… banana split down the trousers… when the moon hits the sky like a )_ ah, yes! Not long after he'd first arrived, there had been a knock at the door and Harley had desperately pushed him into the bedroom. He'd been more than a little miffed at the interruption and had felt about for his gun but the intruder had left before he'd located it and then it had turned out to be pizza anyway, which was okay because he was hungry.

Pizza… Harley lived on top of a pizza restaurant. He wanted Chinese right then, but he could definitely work with a pizza restaurant. They were right in the heart of Little Italy. Probably a nice, traditional little Italian family. Yeah, he could definitely work with that.

He began to snicker into his pie and slammed the fridge door shut.

He made his way through the living room and passed by the brass pole again, moved out into the hall, caught sight of a pair of thigh high black boots with clear stiletto heels jumbled by the linen closet doors and made the connection between the two.

Harley was a stripper!

He had to stop and lean against the wall, he laughed so hard. Really, next to being His, well, HIS, he couldn't really think of a more suitable career for her.

He went into her bedroom and began rifling through her cupboard again, until he found a pale pink bustier and matching set of knickers, patterned in green leaves and strawberries. Cute. He pulled a few more things haphazardly out of the pile of lingerie, as though he'd been searching for something unrelated, and made sure to leave the strawberry set strewn on top.

He'd gotten over the irritation he'd felt when Harley hadn't immediately fallen to her knees in front of him, swearing herself all over again. He'd seen enough – more than enough – to adequately convince him his inevitable triumph was just around the corner. He was looking forward to it, keenly. After all the work she'd put into making this new life of hers, of striving so hard to be normal, to find an ordinary and peaceful existence, he had a very real feeling that pushing her over the edge again would allow him to take her to all new heights of madness and depravity. Losing so much would make her feel she no longer had anything more to lose. It made him tingle deliriously to think of what potential he could unlock in her…

Sure, sure. She was on edge. Sure, sure, he could just scare her into submission. Sure, sure, he didn't like to wait. But then… then she would glance at him with those impossibly big, beseeching baby blues, all awash with hurt and confusion and the desperate suffocating of love and he just felt his heart melt. Why be crude when he could be _brutal_?

It would be _so much more fun_ to slowly pull her apart. To watch her hard fought for sanity twist and untwine. Sure it might take a little while (time, time, always the enemy!) but… oh it would be _so_ delicious.

She'd done so good, turning her life around. But it was a house of cards. Sure, he could send it scattering with one sweep of the hand. O_r _he _could _just carefully remove one here and there letting the whole thing come tumbling gracefully down. _You big softie_ he scolded himself. _You just can't help yourself can you!_

Voices came from beyond the bedroom window. He darted over to it, peeking around the frame. Harley was in the alleyway below, flushed and sweating from her practice (stripper practice?) talking to a fat, moustachioed cliché who loitered at the backdoor of the pizza restaurant.

"Bella", the Super Mario was saying, "You lookin' good! There's somethin' different about you!" and he stood back and surveyed her thoughtfully. Harley became nervous under his scrutiny.

"Different? I don't know how you mean." And she glanced edgily up at her bedroom window. Joker rolled his eyes. She couldn't see him. But subtlety had never been her strong point.

"Yeah," Super Mario was continuing, "You seem… hrm… how to say… you seem happier. Yes, happier. You a lovely girl, bella, but there was always somethin' a little… sad… about you, you know?"

Harley said nothing, just stood there in her sweaty workout gear with her hands behind hr back, her features drawn downwards in anxiety. Super Mario chuckled.

"But you no look so happy when you frown like that! Smile, bella! What's happened? You finally got a man?"

Behind the pink curtains, Joker smiled.

Harley twirled a strand of loose hair around one finger, chewed her lower lip. Joker could just imagine the turmoil churning inside of her. After all the show she'd made of how she didn't want him around, a virtual stranger had noticed a lift in her demeanour.

It excited him.

Quick as a whippet, Joker ducked back into the living room, put her laptop back in its place, then dashed down to the bathroom and turned the shower on full pelt. He divested himself of his pajamas and hopped under the hot stream, pouring a handful of strawberry body wash into his hands and lathering it up. He began to croon, the Gene Kelly ballad from the classic film he liked so much, _Singin' in the Rain_:

_You were meant for me_

_And I was meant for you_

_Nature patterned you_

_And when she was done_

_You were all the sweet things_

_Rolled up in one_

_You're like a plaintive melody_

_That never lets me free_

_But I'm content_

_The angels must have sent you_

_And they meant you just for me..._

_But I'm content_

_The angels must have sent you_

_And they meant you just for me..._

He couldn't hear much over the shower and his singing, but he sensed Harley's presence in the apartment, outside the door. Listening to him. Listening to him singing a cheesy old ballad. Imagining him covered in soapy, hot water…

"Come in and join me, Pooh!" he sang out cheerily and could positively envision the way she jumped.

"I-I'll wait." Her voice was small and tinny beyond the door.

"But Baby, you'll be all hot and sweaty after your training…I'm sure you're uncomfortable…"

There was a pause, then a soft click as she opened the door. He had the shower curtain drawn, of course. She couldn't see him. He couldn't see her. Just the outline of her little figure beyond the soft pink of the plastic curtain. She hovered there, beyond it, as steam billowed around him, obscuring her shadow. He thought of her, damp and red from her work out, knocked sidewards by Super Mario's unexpected observation, the headiness of his all too real presence so close to her after all this time (three years, she claimed, how had they gotten away?).

The tension was so deliciously piqued he unexpectedly got a hard-on.

He looked down at himself, surprised. And in the time he waited instead of saying something to coax her in, she had a change of heart and quickly left the bathroom, shutting the door crisply behind her.

He felt a flicker of annoyance but then threw back his head and laughed, warm water gusting into his mouth and pattering on his eyelids. _Soon, darling, soon_, he told himself.

Soon.


	3. Chapter 3

It took him a bit longer than he had expected to get out of the bathroom because he got caught up admiring himself. He was really very irritated by the broken crown, and hoped Harley had the number of the fellow who always did them for him on hand. His bruise had shrunk and was no longer so ripe nor so purple, which meant he couldn't really play the wounded angle with Harley so much, but the handsome rogue would probably work just as well. The swelling around his knee had gone down substantially and the pain had receded to a dull twinge if he moved it too quick. That was something of a relief - the amount of time it had taken to heal in the past had been absolutely maddening. It seemed he really just had jarred it a little this time.

His jaw was also becoming somewhat stubbled, which he really couldn't stand. Facial hair was so… _gauche_.

Then he'd noticed that Harley had left him a little gift on the toilet seat. A small paper bag filled with an electric razor, some deodorant, hair pomade and aftershave.

Gawd, why was she even bothering to continue this charade of distancing herself from him? She was still anticipating his needs and desires. And not doing too badly either.

He'd very cheerily attended to his toilet, then slung a fluffy hot pink towel about his waist and wandered down to the living room, humming happily to himself.

Harley was standing in the kitchen with the Betty's pie box in her hands, looking at its contents with dismay.

"Mistah J, you ruined the pie!" she said in mournful accusation and he placed a wounded hand upon his breast. Whatever was she talking about? She proffered the open box towards him and he saw what was left of the Coconut Cream had great big Joker-hand sized chunks randomly scooped out of it. Oh yeah. He giggled and raised his hands to Harley who puffed out a sight in frustration.

"It's still good, Harley. Eat it." He made his voice a little more forceful than he'd so far been using with her and something flickered over her face in response. An expression of almost sensual compliance. She lifted the box just a little towards her face but then caught herself, placed it down upon the bench and sighed. Never mind. He'd push her face down into it later.

"Didja use up all the hot water?" she queried him resignedly as she passed by on her way to the bathroom.

"Well, you're about to find out, aren't you Punkin?" he retorted cheekily and thought he might've seen her hide an exasperated little smile.

Something was… different. How, he wasn't sure, but it was. It was just a matter of sifting through everything that had taken place since she got back and putting his finger on it precisely. There were many who believed Joker didn't pay much attention to the world around him, unless it was directly and immediately of significance to him. That he was so narcissistic nothing passed within his sphere of consciousness unless it was about him.

In fact, Joker absorbed everything. Every sound, sight, smell and sensation the world had on offer. It's just he didn't notice it unless it was going to prove immediately useful to him. In truth he filed everything away. Everything. Then he dredged it back up when it could be useful. But sometimes it could take a while until he found exactly what it was he needed to.

One of his doctors had once claimed it was the reason behind his insanity. That he literally couldn't deal with the amount of information he absorbed. Indeed, she'd claimed it wasn't insanity at all - but a sort of "super sanity". Which sounded ridiculous, but had given him some amusement at Arkham springing about the common room and striking heroic poses whilst declaring that no one was to fear, because he was there with his awesome powers of SUPER SANITY to deliver them all.

He'd then 'confiscated' Harv's coin, citing 'over-reliance on a superficial and entirely symbolic decision maker standing in for true autonomy of thought'; thrown Scarface across the room and slapped Arnold Wesker across the head whilst screaming it's a freaking puppet!; then sat Hatter down in a corner, took both his hands in his own and said in a gentle voice: "I've gotta give it you straight, my friend. Jon-Benet? Completely. Out. Of. Your. League."; whilst in the background Two-Face was subdued by a pack of guards and Scarface yelled from a corner that Ventriloquist was to MOIDER THE GUM.

He'd had his common room privileges taken away for a month after that.

Dr. Ruth noticed because she watched him and watched the way he looked at people. That's why certain things were apparent to her that seemed inexplicable to others. Like how he'd known that Dr. Bartholomew would have a history of playground name callings relating to a condition he had that caused his skin to flake based on the fact that Bartholomew wore long sleeve shirts and high-collars even in the most wretched heat of summer, and was constantly tugging at them to ensure as much flesh as possible was covered.

He'd very much enjoyed killing Dr. Ruth, no less because she knew he would.

Eventually.

She hadn't even been surprised when he showed up on her doorstep that night.

He'd liked that.

She'd tried so hard not to scream. 'I knew you'd come' she'd said, lighting a cigarette. So nonchalant.

But she'd screamed. They all screamed, in the end. He did so enjoy it.

Ah. He had it. She'd called him Mistah J. Oooh, they were getting close now. He rubbed his hands together gleefully just as Harley emerged from the hallway, pulling damp hair away from her neck. She was in a pair of baby doll pajamas and had fixed her hair into her old, familiar ponytails. She looked so wholesome and cute and it made him hungry.

"You shouldn't have to cook again tonight, Pooh," he said in a sugary voice. "How about we get something delivered? Chinese?" He'd had water dumplings on his mind all afternoon.

She'd shrugged, flickered her eyes over him and away again. "Sure," she said. She seemed distracted. He looked down at himself.

He was sitting on her couch still wrapped in just the towel. He was pretty sure he'd done that deliberately, as well. Titillate her a little. She'd always swooned over his long, lean muscularity.

He patted the sofa cushions next to him. "Come sit down and tell me about your day."

The _sacrifices _he made for his art! He hoped it wouldn't be too crushingly boring.

She hesitated a little but then acquiesced, even daring to look at his face and offer him a little smile. Gently, gently…

She shrugged, scooped her legs up beneath her.

"Amy's being such a tyrant. She's the Captain - didja know I'm on the Gotham Knights Cheerleading Squad?"

He didn't, and he didn't care, but he heard the little hint of pride in her voice when she said it and responded accordingly.

"You are? Cupcake, that's wonderful! What a clever girl you are!"

She blushed a little. Aw. He let his eyes rake up and down her body a little roguishly and the colour on her cheeks deepened.

"And, if I'm not mistaken, you're doing other forms of entertainment as well," his voice was low with insinuation, and he let his gaze slide sidewards to the pole.

She giggled, ponytails bobbing and squirmed a little. "Oh, that. Well, I don't take my clothes off or nothin'. It's more just - like - stunts and acrobatics and stuff. It takes a lotta skill."

Yeah, like the audience of oglers cared. "I'm sure it does. Perhaps you should demonstrate for me a little later on." Like he could possibly be titillated by such a thing. People were so common.

She gulped and lowered her gaze bashfully, twisting one shoulder up, practically shucking. "Heh. Maybe later."

Her cheeks were scarlet and it was too adorable for words. He stared at her probingly, a soft grin on his face and after a moment she raised her eyes to his.

He immediately let his gaze rove downwards, gleefully obscene and undressing her with his eyes. She squirmed a little more, but otherwise didn't move and after lingering on her breasts for a moment (he was far more interested in the rapid rising and falling of her ribcage as her breathing increased, but she wouldn't know that), let them drop lower to her crotch.

She did it again. Her hand flickered to the spot just below her left hipbone.

He lurched forward across the couch and made a grab for her, pinning her back against the armrest with one hand, the other going for her crotch. She gasped, taken completely off guard, and lifted a leg reflexively to block him, but his agile fingers had already probed into the waistband of her pajama shorts, located a tight folded square of paper and withdrawn it. He released her, and leant back, but she stayed where she was, blinking at him for a moment in confusion. He didn't look at her but absorbed the energy she was giving off, the strange arrestedness of her pose. She seemed… disappointed… and he realised she thought he'd been going to use some sort of physical force on her.

And she'd wanted him to.

Heh. He'd use that later.

But for now he was more interested in the little square of paper.

He began to unfold it and she sprang back into action, leaping forward to try and wrest it from his fingers.

"That's mine, Mistah J, give it back!" she squealed, distressed. Her brows were all knitted and she was grinding her teeth together as they wrestled. He lifted a hand to her face and pushed her back.

"Oooh, keeping love letters in your knickers, Harleykins!" he teased playfully and stood up.

Her eyes were wet as she stood up too, stomping one foot and clenching her fists by her side, looking up at him desperately.

"Please." She entreated him, but he already had the paper open, and when he saw what was on it he wanted to crow.

It was him. A photo of him. A mugshot. Not one of his best but still pretty damn gorgeous, clearly printed off of a website. It bore the scars of many, many foldings and unfoldings and had clearly been carried around a great deal. He grinned at it for a moment and then leered at his distressed little pet, who was doing her best not to cry, staring at him with a wounded, betrayed expression.

"I was only keeping it there so you wouldn't find it and get the wrong idea." She said defensively and he reached over and patted her gently on the head.

"Of course you were."

**---**

_Joker passed a lot of his time in Arkham gently destroying the minds of the doctors who tried to treat him. This was of varying degrees of difficulty and intrigue. Sometimes it was altogether too simple, and other times it was altogether too common (seriously, how many times could someone's deepest, darkest shame be a date rape, or childhood obesity? It certainly demonstrated the lack of creativity on the parts of the rest of the population that was for sure. God, did the world even really appreciate the favour he did it?) One especially triumphant coup had been a Doctor who'd actually succeeded in getting him signed up for a lobotomy. Joker had worked his influences, got his hands on some paralysing sedatives and pulled a bit of a gypsy switch with some skin bleach and hair dye. When the incident had been discovered - Doctor Lewis now sat and drooled in the Asylum's minimum security wing - the very notion of submitting Joker for any sort of extreme therapy was never spoken of again._

_But then little Dr. Quinzel had shown up._

_At first he thought she was going to be just another run of the mill little know-it-all with delusions of grandeur._

_She was very pretty, he could see that though it didn't affect him much, and she thought she was much smarter than she was although she wasn't entirely stupid. She was also naive and there was a touch of vulnerability and wilfulness about her. She had something she wanted to prove, this one. _

_She was ambitious - a first year intern, she was already pushing for sessions with the hardcore set - _his_ wing, and on some level he'd admired the moxie although on a greater level he thought she had a lot of nerve and definitely deserved what he had in store for her._

_Of course, then he hadn't been entirely sure what he had in store for her, but he was a whiz with improvisation._

_It wasn't hard to dissect her. She was a jock - practically Olympic level, he discovered - and she was blonde, and very pretty and had the misfortune of possessing a helium-filled voice she worked hard to keep lower in register._

"No one takes me seriously."

_She was flaky and easily distracted and, he suspected, slightly dyslexic. She was also poor at expressing herself, particularly in the written word (lending credence to the dyslexic theory). He wondered how she'd gotten the grades she was rumoured to have, and thought he could probably guess._

"No one has any faith in me._"_

_She was lonely. Heads turned to look at her wherever she went and she played on it, used it and at the same time resented it because she couldn't trust anyone and their motivations. Her parents did not phone and she did not have any photos on her desk._

"No one loves me."

_Although she excelled at gymnastics, was charming, attractive, intelligent and friendly; people seemed not to expect a whole lot from her. Maybe it was the flakiness, or even the fact of her wholesome prettiness, or her effusive and airy nature, but she was often overlooked, if not outright forgotten in terms of what she was capable of contributing. _

"No one respects me."

_She was very self-aware and didn't hesitate to resort to various manipulative measures with men and women both. She mixed and matched shades of seduction, charm, cuteness and perky friendliness to obtain whatever it was she wanted._

"Everyone underestimates me."

_She wore severe but stylish suits and stayed for hours after her day finished, forcing herself to read articles she didn't understand. She worked on her gymnastics every single day, coming straight to work from the gym. She filled notebooks with copious amounts of research. She shamelessly flirted with superior doctors and found a way to get a meeting with every visiting expert she could. _

"I'll show them."

_Yes, all in all he liked Dr. Quinzel a whole lot and looked forward to a few probing sessions with her._

_He'd really just wanted to break her apart, send her screaming back home to Mommy and Daddy, letting her Doctorate certificate gather dust in the spare bedroom, working days at a restaurant and going to beauty school by night. He didn't think it would take very long - once confronted with her own overwhelming hopelessness, she was sure to crumble._

_But something had happened along the way._

_He was very clued into people's body language, the little nuances and gestures they made. It was how he was so often able to get the drop on one of the stuporheroes, and hold his own in a fight with those who far outweighed him. And within a couple of sessions he was very aware that Dr. Quinzel was intimidated by him, frightened of him, entranced by him… and very aroused by him._

_Joker got a reasonable amount of very odd fanmail from women all over the country and, indeed, the world. He'd encountered more than one woman - and man, for that matter - out there who found him absolutely captivating - _and who could blame them_! - and quite openly lusted after him. That's not so say it happened a lot, or that he expected it – oh no, he _expected_ people to _scream _when they saw him and they usually obliged – but now and then he unearthed a worm. He found it mildly diverting if he was out for a night on the town, and it gave him the opportunity to add a few extra smiles to his collection. He didn't mind indulging them for a little while until he grew bored and did whatever he had to rid himself of the hangers-on. So the concept of being desired by a pretty girl was by no means an alien one to him, even if is wasn't usual._

_But it had never happened with a doctor before._

_It took things in a whole new direction. He was quite pleased, truthfully. It certainly changed up the old routine. And he was a whiz with improv._

_But when she confessed that she loved him, he'd been flabbergasted._

_It had been so long since he'd even experienced that emotion - that of being flabbergasted - he wasn't even entirely sure what it was at first, except that dear little Dr Quinzel had roused it and that bothered him. A daffy little thing like that was not supposed to have that sort of impact on him. She wasn't supposed to have any sort of impact on him. _

_Of course, all sorts of loonies and freaks had sworn devotion and love to him in the past. But they were crazy._

_This one - she really _meant _it. With every fibre and nerve of her being. _

_She adored him, completely and absolutely. He liked that. _

_So once he'd gotten over the initial shock, he went with it._

_And she proved herself very useful after that. She helped him escape several times and more than once he'd appeared on her doorstep, as much for the giggle he got out of her reaction as for a place to hide where he'd never be suspected. _

_She was always so thrilled, so delighted and yet so horrified and resisting as well. _

_And back then it had been easy to convince her they could not cross their professional boundaries - it could be detrimental to his recovery, giving too much of his vulnerable soul away in the physical sense. Of course, he'd loosened her up with a few make-out and heavy petting sessions in Arkham, but that had been necessary for the game. Just as it was necessary then to let her squirm in her jim-jams while thinking of him lying in the next room, driving herself crazy with desire._

_She was an awful cook but she tried very hard, and somehow that made it funnier._

_Then, she'd been busted and, quite frankly, he'd forgotten all about her. It was bothersome he no longer had her ripe little mind to toy with during therapy but he had become accustomed to losing doctors._

_Nonetheless, he'd felt a tug towards her the very first time he'd laid eyes on her._

_He didn't like to dwell on that too much, the reality of that tug. _

_And then - ha, ha - then how everything had changed. _

_Almost impossible to believe, how things had changed._

_No Man's Land had set her free and she'd bound herself to his side from that day forth. _

_He'd been so happily and gloriously alone for so long it had required quite an adjustment period. Especially since she was so - so _grabby_. He liked being desired, but he wasn't sure how he felt about this constant rubbing and petting and groping and squeezing and caressing._

_People generally tried not to get close enough to so much as brush the sleeve of his coat. He was used to that reaction. He _liked_ that reaction. _

_But Harley… brushing the sleeve of his coat was never enough. No, she had to push the coat off his shoulders and undo his necktie and pop the buttons off his shirt and run her tongue down his neck and pull his nipples between her teeth. She didn't flinch when he got close, in fact she usually wiggled to get a bit closer still. When he sat down she'd squirm onto his lap, rubbing her butt into his groin and slinging her arms around his neck and nibble his earlobe. _

_Indeed, for a little while he'd wondered if he'd bitten off more than he could chew with this one. The Harley Quinn thing was definitely a turn up for the books, and while he _loved _her new look, she seemed to think it eroded altogether whatever boundaries were left between them._

_Of course, he'd eventually come to see her as his girlfriend. And eroded those boundaries himself. But, in the beginning, it was all very uncomfortable._

_But, one, twice, three times a master of spontaneous performance, he'd figured out how to make the most of it as time passed._

_And then it was kinda nice. Someone to share in his fun. She maybe didn't really 'get it', but she tried. And she generally found him and all his various antics incredibly amusing and was more than delighted to play a little part in them if it helped. Or if he just wanted her to. _

_Yes, he might, it was conceivable, within the realm of possibility, say that, in her own very meagre, inadequate and humble way, she _understood_ him._

_She had become a very different sort of audience for him. One that was always admiring, always supportive and always cheering. She laughed just as hard when he blew up a schoolbus as when he used a handbuzzer on one of his goons. She even laughed when he tripped her so she went face first into the brickwall. He appreciated a dame who could take a joke._

_And none of the cretins he was obliged to surround himself with were so keen to participate. They were all terrified of him, of course, and were generally unimaginative and uninspired. They just wanted to keep their mouths shut and do their job and go as unnoticed as possible. Indeed, he had learned it was better to never fill them in too much - even hired muscle could have queasy stomachs and changes of heart. It really did make a difference to have a loyal companion who fully appreciated his genius and vision._

_Yes. He had fun with Harley._

_He'd come out of his playroom one day in high spirits, cackling to himself and doing a little soft-shoe shuffle, his slippers leaving bloody prints behind him, a long, low moan in the room he'd just left cut off as the door clicked shut, to find Harley sitting mournfully in the centre of the bed he'd started inexplicably finding her in. Her long face and pouting little mouth was a downer and he clapped his hands sharply at her. _

_"Come on, Harley why the long face, Baby Cakes?" he demanded. Her face was bloody and her body bruised and he wondered how that had happened. But he was in too good a mood to let her gloominess get him down and he decided to cheer her up._

_"Come on, come on," he cried, leaping onto the bed beside her and yanking her up onto her feet. He gripped her hands tight between his own and began jumping up and down._

_It hadn't taken her long to perk up and together they whooped and cheered and jumped up and down on the bed, the springs creaking noisily beneath them._

_He'd bent at the waist and snatched up a pillow and began pummelling her with it, and she'd shrieked in delight and got one of her own and they'd ruthlessly battled, battered and bashed each other with the pillows. Eventually, one ripped and goosefeathers went scattering everywhere about them, like soft, kissing rain. He'd been laughing so hard he had a cramp in his side and she was giggling in joy and squealed ecstatically when he'd pounced on her and began a tickle war. She fought back admirably, wriggling out of his grip and getting her own quick moving hands digging into his sides and just around under his arms where he was really ticklish and he'd shrieked with laughter and kicked at the air and together they'd rolled over and over on the bed, each trying to out do the other with the bed rocking dangerously and goosefeathers floating down all around them._

_Finally he'd rolled on top of her and come to a stop and she lay beneath him panting and he'd looked down at her with a quiet smile and stroked her cheek. She was adorable, with her hair all sticking out of her ponytails, and feather fronds stuck to her eyelashes, still giggling a little with the tremors left behind by his dexterous tickling fingers._

_"Can we get a jumping castle, Mistah J?" she asked him and he'd grinned wider and ran his hand over her hair._

_"What a brilliant idea!" He said approvingly and she beamed proudly._

_He cupped her cheek again and she pressed her face into his palm and smiled at him adoringly. She was really very cute. He pushed his hand back further so his fingertips curved around the back of her head, kneading gently there and she shut her eyes in enjoyment._

_Abruptly he shoved her face first into the pillows. _

_She struggled, but only weakly. He held her down until she passed out, then rolled her limp body over and tucked her into the bed, arranging her pajamas neatly and bringing the sheets right up to her chin. He propped her on her side to ensure her throat was clear and smoothed her hair off her face. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and nuzzled at her ear, then got up and went to finish the activity he'd left behind in his playroom._

**---**

He'd diffused the situation by scrunching the picture into a ball and tossing it into a corner of the room, by the television and suggesting they order the food.

She'd been mortified and humiliated, but he was willing to let it go for the time being. He thought she should at least be glad about that.

But caught out and flustered like that, she needed a little direction to make her feel secure again so he'd suggested banana splits, because he loved banana splits and really wanted one.

She always did make the very best banana splits. He supposed because there was no actual cooking involved. He sat there spooning up gigantic mouthfuls of ice cream, banana, nuts, topping and sprinkles while Harley carefully, painstakingly massaged every muscle in his foot. He hadn't quite anticipated the last part but he'd figured there wouldn't be any harm in rolling up the legs of his pajamas so she could at least see his poor swollen knee and feel bad about wanting him to leave. And she'd asked about it and he'd shrugged, appropriately stoic, and said it still twinged a little bit and she'd hesitated and said, well maybe she could rub it a little.

And somehow his knee had turned into his calf which had turned into his foot. And while he enjoyed luscious spoonfuls of ripe banana, strawberry ice-cream and caramel topping, Harley was sitting there devoutly working her hands over his foot with a slightly vacant, glazed look on her face. It was also unmistakeably edged with bliss. Heh.

He scooped up a spoonful of icecream and topping and flicked it at her. It landed on her cheek and her expression changed abruptly to one of astonishment. He began to laugh.

Snapped out of her adoring reverie Harley did not look quite like she knew how to react for several seconds. Then her lip wobbled. She tried to cover it up by twisting her brows into a frown but before she could react with any further indignation he lurched forward, closing the space between them and licked the sticky mess off her cheek.

"Why, Harley", he purred, "Your suffering tastes as sweet as it looks."

He scooped up two fingerfuls of icecream and slathered it down her neck and just below the collar of her pajama top. Then he bent his head to lick it up, digging his fingers into her sides as he did so. She squealed and began to struggle, but her humour had changed to delight and she giggled as he tickled her.

He tore her pajama top open, buttons flying out over the room, and observed with no small delight that beneath her pajamas she was wearing the little strawberry-patterned set he'd laid out for her earlier. He lifted the hem of it and upended the bowl of ice-cream onto her belly, then pinned her down at the shoulders and leered into her face.

"I'm going to eat you all up, Harley!" he threatened and then continued to tickle her, nipping at her stomach and slurping up long tonguefuls of banana split. She squeaked again and struggled.

"No, Mistah J!" she shrieked, tears of laughter running down her face, "You can't eat me!"

"I can and I will!" He carolled back and gnawed on her arms, on the swell of her breast, on her stomach. He held her slim wrists in one of his hands and wrenched her arms above her head and began tickling one armpit with his free hand. She screamed and twisted frantically from side to side, her body convulsed with laughter and he lifted his knee and pushed it firmly into her hip, keeping her still.

Then he suddenly stopped.

She opened her eyes and peeked at him in trepidation, not sure what was coming next, what more agonising tortures he had in store for her.

He loomed above her, her wrists grasped in one hand, his knee pressing down into her belly and his smile dark and shadowed with the living room light blocked by his head. He grinned at her for several seconds so that she became uneasy, uncertain, then lifted his free hand to the space between her breasts, where the thin gauze of her lacy top had become stained with chocolate topping and ice-cream, and gently tugged it down a little. Not far. Just enough to expose the scar tissue there. A long thin line between her breasts, raised and pink against her creamy skin.

Her lip was slack and her eyes wide as she stared up at him, shivering at his finger traced that scar. Below his knee, below her abdominals, below her guts, he felt her pelvic muscles violently clench. Mmmm.

Then he abruptly hauled her upwards by her wrists, and she gasped but did not resist.

"Sweets for the sweet!" He hissed, then stood up on the couch and bent her over the kitchen bench directly behind them, pushing her face first into the Coconut Cream pie that still sat there.

He released her, stepped off the couch onto the carpet, pointed a finger at her and let his delighted laughter rattle the apartment.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: **__Some of the content in this chapter is beginning to get quite strong. You have been cautioned._

_---_

Harley had clearly been worried about him getting bored.

She'd bought him a chemistry set (o_ver 250 amazing experiments!_ The box boasted) an electronic project lab and a fuel cell car kit.

For a while he contemplated just stacking them all in the middle of her living room, setting them on fire and seeing what happened as the various ingredients and tools in each lit up and interacted with each other, but then he figured he might as well play a little.

Harley had, of course, shopped for his SmileX ingredients many times in the past. He noted with a mingled amusement and irritation that she had not provided him with all of the sufficient materials. He'd toyed with the idea of lacing the pizzas downstairs with a syrupy form of it, a way of spreading a little joy to let the yawning bumbling swathe of Gothamites know he was back in town to entertain them all once more. And just think what it would do for the pizza joint!_"Guaranteed to put a smile on your dial!" _Heh.

But, it was for the best he supposed. He really needed to plan something utterly magnificent for his grand comeback. He wondered if Batsy had begun to relax. If he really had disappeared, then there was no way dear old Dork Knight would assume he was dead. Oh-ho no. He'd be constantly wound up, waiting, waiting, waiting. Aw. Joker felt very fuzzy and benevolent at that thought, at imagining his nemesis spending sleepless days, sweating and turning in his 3000-thread count sheets, wondering when Joker would return to wreak havoc once more. He _really does love to hate me_, Joker mused.

While he munched the last of his toast and hollandaise eggs, he toyed with a nasty corrosive he had managed to concoct with the chemistry set, testing it on his knife and fork. The steel slowly blackened then began to bubble. Not bad, not bad. Not very quick acting though. Could be good for torture though. Where was Harley?

He swivelled his head around looking about the apartment.

"Harley!" he shouted. "Harley!"

No answer.

Well, just because she had this cockamamie idea that she didn't belong to him anymore didn't mean she couldn't answer him when he called!

He got up and strode through the living room and into the bathroom, calling for his girl as he did so. He checked the linen cupboard and under the bed. At some point he forgot his original purpose and figured they were playing hide-and-seek. This necessitated sneaking around on tip-toe and "pouncing" on the hiding spots before he abruptly recalled that Harley had left sometime earlier.

That really annoyed him. He really was rather resentful of this "new life" Harley had, it seemed to require all sorts of outings and duties that had absolutely nothing at all to do with him. Which was stupid. And patently pointless. True enough, she hadn't once come home without something for him, but it was never something he'd sent her to get. And that was just wrong, wrong, wrong.

They had a simple life, really. He wanted things; she got them. It worked for both of them. Well, it worked for him. And that was all that was important.

He was interrupted from his reverie by the sound of voices in the alley below. He went and peeked out of the window. Super Mario was there calling out after a beautiful teenaged girl with long, curly dark hair and enormous brown eyes. She was properly dressed in a long skirt and knit-sweater, little ballet flats on her pretty brown feet.

"Angelina, you gotta be home by six, okay!"

"Okay Papa!" Angelina struggled to keep the exasperation from her voice.

"And call at three, okay!"

"Yes, Papa, I know!"

"And be careful, Angelina, don't be talkin' to no strange people!"

"Papa, I know, okay!"

Joker chuckled and drummed his long fingers on the window frame. He wondered if Angelina would wait until she got to her friend's place before kicking off the flats and putting on the low heels she doubtless carried in that over-sized purse slung over her shoulder, or if she'd do it as soon as she got out of Papa's sight.

Joker never slept very well. In fact, it couldn't really be said he slept at all. He reclined and rested, he even sort of blanked out. But sleep was not something that was natural for him. His mind was too busy at all times, pulsing and pumping with far too many different thoughts and ideas, swirling and entwining and waking him up in a fit of inspiration, scrabbling about for something to write the latest stroke of brilliance down with. The number of near-illegible notes Harley had found in blood on the doorframe, in chocolate sauce on the table, in soap on one of his dressing gowns… at any rate, he'd been pacing up and down in the dark in Harley's room last night when there'd been a sound from outside. Peeking out, he saw the same lovely brunette sneaking carefully amongst the garbage bins, her shoes in one hand, wiping lipstick off her face with the back of one hand, silently letting herself in to through the backdoor.

He wandered back into the living room and cast an imperious glance at his little experiment, the knife and fork smoking quietly in the morning sunshine cast in through the window.

Boooo-ring.

He got out Harley's laptop and looked up the pizzeria on the Whitepages website. Harley's little pink plastic phone sat, covered in a thin film of dust, on the little table next to the television set.

After three rings, he was answered by an abrupt and disinterested voice.

"Picasso Pizza, we not open until five."

Joker lowered his voice a couple of notches, gave it an edge of uncertainty.

"Uh, is uh. Angelina there please?"

He could practically hear Super Mario stiffen on the other end. In the short silence that followed, Joker stifled a giggle.

"No, Angelina's not here right now, I take a message?" Super Mario's voice was crisp and curious.

"I'll call back later," he mumbled into the phone and quickly hung up before erupting into merry laughter.

He began to work with the electronics set, assembling a rudimentary electric shocker. The voltage was hardly enough to make it really interesting of course, but maybe he could rig it up to the sofa, or the kettle or something, somewhere Harley could get a pleasant little surprise when she got home. Ha! That was it! The toilet seat! That would be perfect! Give it enough to knock her off. The image of Harley with her knickers around her ankles splayed on the tiles of the bathroom sent him into fits.

When he calmed down he picked up the phone again and redialled Picasso Pizza. The same man answered.

"Yo, Angelina home?" Joker lifted his voice this time, adopting what he thought was a reasonable facsimile of a skater's accent.

"No she isn't, who is this?" Super Mario sounded very curious this time.

"No sweat dude, I'll try again some other time."

He dropped the receiver into the cradle and giggled wildly a bit more before dancing off to Harley's bedroom again.

He fingered his way through her things, entertaining memories of Harley courting his attention. At the time it all seemed infuriatingly annoying, but he felt a certain sense of nostalgia for it now. At least when she was dressing up in stupid frilly scraps of lace she wasn't questioning where she belonged, or fighting it. The attempted seductions never really worked; he was more inclined to get in the mood after she'd killed someone on his behalf, fallen flat on her face whilst scrabbling desperately to catch something he'd thrown at her or guiltily ignored Pammy in the rec room at Arkham. She hated ignoring Pammy, but if he gave her a certain look she knew that's what he'd wanted and although she'd sit there mournfully, casting sad little glances at Pam every so often, she'd do it. Joker wondered why she couldn't see it bothered her more than it did Pammy. He knew she drove Pam just as nuts as she drove him – more, in some ways, because really, he personally thought he appreciated Harley on many levels Pam was incapable of (although he'd wager there were a few she'd like to…heh). Pam was even more of a loner than he was and couldn't appreciate the joys of a cuddly and completely devoted little harlequin who was always with a smile, or failing that, a scream. Pam just didn't know how to appreciate an_audience_ like he did.

Anyway he'd always reward her by letting her sneak her hands into his Arkham pyjama bottoms. And that always cheered her back up.

That was, of course, until they started separating their common-room times. Apparently he was a bad influence and – heh – _detrimental to her recovery_ – hee hee!

The grin abruptly fell away from his face. Cretins.

He tossed her clothes about.

The lingerie didn't interest him. He liked the cottontails better, the full brief cotton panties with the cartoon flowers and Little Miss characters painted on them. He liked Harley's full retro-skirts (women really knew how to dress in those days…) and little knit-sets. They were so… _proper_. Proper was interesting because proper, more often than not, concealed all sorts of decidedly_improper _secrets. He wondered if all the happy people who smiled at his girl as she skipped down the street in her neat little flared skirts and sweaters had any idea of the sordid past she hid – of the valuables she'd stolen, the buildings she'd destroyed – and the lives she'd taken. He had a misty memory of Harley in her tight little harlequin outfit, a positively psychotic, and dazzling, grin on her face, flooring the gas as he leaned out the window, of barrelling through red lights and pedestrians going left, right and twenty feet in the air, like pins at a bowling alley. "_Ya shoulda listened to the lollypop lady!" _she screeched at them and he'd laughed beside her, even though it wasn't that good a joke. It was more the hysterical glee in her voice as she said it, even the genuine edge of indignation – like it really was _their_fault for stepping out in front of her.

He picked up her medication bottles and rattled them, wondered if she'd been taking them while he was there. They had her so doped up it was no wonder she was so… restrained. Almost as much as she had been as Dr. Quinzel, but without the veneer of pretentiousness. He was a little surprised by how much he wanted her. He'd been vaguely aroused all morning, touching Harley's things and thinking of the number of hours and effort that had gone into making this little puke-pink house so perfect and how soon it was all going to be meaningless, nothing more than empty relics.

He lay back on her bed, settling his head amongst the half-dozen pillows there, and enjoyed the feeling. He didn't need to do anything about it, didn't even need to touch himself. He just luxuriated in the sensation. Tonight was the night, he decided.

"Picasso Pizza, we open at five,"

"Could I please speak to Angelina?" Polite, posh-boy accent for this one.

"Who is this?"

"I'm – " Nice long hesitation. " - a friend."

"You a friend huh?" Super Mario did not sound impressed. "Well you listen to me, you little boy, you come near my daughter and I'll – "

"Salvatore!" A woman's voice called out in distress from the background and Joker covered the mouthpiece with one hand and snorted. Recomposing himself he spoke down into the mouthpiece again.

"Could you please let Angelina know I'll meet her at midday tomorrow? Thanks."

"Now you listen here – "

_Clunk._

The front door shut with a bang.

"Mistah J – Joker – " She was still giving it a red hot go! " – I'm home!"

"Baby!" he cried and sprang over to greet her, grabbing her by both wrists and spinning her into a dance, humming loudly along to the Cole Porter CD he had playing.

"Oy, quit it!" she grimaced. He ignored her and spun her out then brought her back in. Once upon a time he'd actually succeeded in teaching her some basic eight-beat steps but they'd clearly zapped that sort of important information out of her in Arkham. She stumbled over her kitten heels and squealed as he drew her tight against him, his hand enclosing hers tightly. He dipped her, sweeping her feet off the floor and she shrieked as the world rushed past her.

"C'mon Harley-Girl, you've plunged from greater heights than that," he teased and she pouted.

"Spoilsport," he sniffed and whipped her back up to her feet, sent her spinning away again then let go so she tripped and splayed over the armrest of the couch. He laughed and she struggled to sit up once more, glaring at him.

"Gonna finish it off with a pie to the kisser?" she snapped and he rolled his eyes. Was she still sore about that? "And what have you done to my apartment!" she screeched and he blinked rapidly and looked about him.

She'd provided him with a packet of markers and lots of paper. He loved to draw and the carpet was strewn with multi-coloured pictures of death trap ideas, Batman on the cross with Robin weeping to one side and Babs Gordon sprawled at his feet on the other (with her wheelchair tipped over behind her), a couple of startlingly good sketches of the street outside, with everyone rendered with huge smiles and bleeding eyes, and a few renditions of a few dream-like thoughts he had during the sleep-like rest periods he spent in bed, looking like something out of a Marx Brothers film crossed with a H.P. Lovecraft story. Only trouble was, the pieces of paper she'd provided him with were too small for one especially beautiful idea he'd had so he'd taken it to the deep-pink feature wall on which had hung Harley's sanity certificate.

He'd thrown that across the room and then used the glass from the shattered frame to tear strips of paint off the wall, adding the final touches to his grand vision – a landscape of an unknown land, where locusts blotted out the sky and maggots squirmed out of the earth and people's vital organs where laced around their necks and mothers were constantly calling for their lost children and men saw in each other nothing more than their own pointlessness and fell shrieking to the earth.

He thought he'd done a pretty good job of depicting it actually.

He broke out of his admiring reverie to find Harley still glaring at him, a cross little pout twisting her mouth. He debated between laughing at her or punching her, or doing both (both would be great!) then decided to reason with her.

"Well, Harley," he pointed out to her reasonably. "You didn't want me to get _bored_, did you?"

She paused at that. Then shrugged and sighed and went to her utilities closet.

Meanwhile he moved to examine the groceries she'd brought home and crowed with delight when he found another Betty's box in there. Good girl.

She started to clean up and although she made sure to let out a loud, exasperated sigh every now and then she also started humming and a soft little smile played about her mouth.

"Oh, Mistah J," she said in an indulgently scolding tone when she discovered a small, semi-melted pile of her silverware on the windowsill and he grinned between mouthfuls of banana cream pie. He obligingly threw up his hands in an _aw shucks, doll_ gesture, and she shook her head despairingly, unable to keep the little smile from her mouth. He was glad he'd given his girl something that could make her feel like she was actually useful in the world.

Which reminded him…

He sat down on the couch with a plateful of pie, put his feet up on the coffee table and watched her tidy up, waiting for his opening.

It came when she discovered her smashed sanity certificate frame. She stared at it, aghast for a moment, then knelt down by the wreckage, chin wobbling.

"Mistah J…" she sniffed. "How could you?"

What a stupid question to ask him! It was like she didn't know him at all!

"Oh that," he replied dismissively. "I didn't do it on purpose, Pooh." Which was true, he hadn't. It had just been in his way, so he'd thrown it over his shoulder. He wasn't responsible for what happened to it once it was out of his sight, after all.

She was snuffling and picking up pieces of broken glass and the sound made him angry. This whole thing had been going on far too long. Okay, so it had been kinda fun, but it was beyond a joke now. She was going to play things his way – whether she liked it or not.

"It's not like it means anything, Baby," he said, syrupy sweet and she sat back on her haunches and stared at him with distraught wet eyes.

"It means something to me!" she cried and he clucked his tongue.

"Nothing means anything, Honey." He said gently. "Take you, for example. Take you and this little charade you're calling a life."

"No," she choked, but he continued.

"Just what were you trying to accomplish, anyway? You haven't found it, have you? You thought you would. Find meaning. Find a new life. But it's all a sham isn't it – a great big farce you're carrying out."

"Stop it. Shut up." She was hiccoughing through her tears, her hands on either side of her head, fingertips digging into her scalp.

"Oh, no, Baby Cakes, I don't think so. Cold truths are hard to hear, but Punkin, I only tell you because I care."

She darted him a look filled with desperation and horror. He grinned widely at her, enjoying the way she seemed to shrink in front of him and continued, leaning forward to rest one hand on his knee, holding her eyes in his.

"You thought joining a cheerleading team and working as a stripper was going to bring you fulfilment? What, the great, crushing, sweaty crowds appreciate you because they cheer? Taking cooking classes a few times a week and going to Beauty School is a constructive way to spend your time? Give me a rest, Harley. Your phone never rings. No one emails you. And I know why. It's because every day you wake up, and you put on your happy face and you pretend like everything's okay and you pass the day feeling empty and hollow and wondering why you can't just enjoy it all like they do. Then you come home, and eat something pointlessly healthy, and hop into bed and cry and wish that you could feel alive again. And you can't figure out why this existence seems so crushingly empty, why you can't go out on dates with Guy or to the movies with Kathy or for coffee with Brad and Janet. There's only one thing you've ever really been truly meant for, and that's me. There's only been one time in your life you've ever been truly alive, and that was by my side. You know your life is with me. You know I'm the only thing that really means anything in the end. I give you purpose, I give you meaning. I might not give you stability or the promise of a comfortable future, or a 401k plan, or hell, even respect – but there's one thing I give you no one else on this earth ever has. I give you truth. I give you reality. What you have with me is pure, and that's why you couldn't give it up until you thought I was dead – most of the miserable crawling insects on this earth never have anything near the sort of purity you and I have. And that's why you'll never get away from your love for me."

He sat back against the sofa and lifted his arms above his head, beaming at her where she knelt on the carpet; her shoulders hunched downwards, her hands limp between her kneeling legs.

"That's the real reason you weren't keeping anything around to remind you of me. It's not because you've moved on. But because so long as you didn't have to think about it, you could pretend that you have. " He stood, towering over her, as she slowly bent further and further over, gradually curling into a little ball at his feet, sobbing quietly. "That it doesn't matter. Anything else would make you realise how empty this so-called existence you lead is. How meaningless. How pointless."

He crouched down and placed a gentle hand on her head, his fingertips gently stroking through her hair, feeling the tremors as the sobs wracked her body.

"Oh Pooh," he crooned, "Why fight it? Daddy's here. I'll make it all better again. I'm waiting for you."

He stood up straight, took a moment to enjoy the sight of her wretchedness, and then went down into the bedroom. He sat down on her bed, with his back against the headboard, propped up against her pillows and crossed his ankles.

And waited.

He knew the loneliness of being despondent on the floor would be too much for her to handle, as the truth in everything he'd just said overwhelmed her.

And knowing he was there, that she could be close to him, the way it had always driven her crazy to be – she wouldn't be able to fight it anymore. He'd seen her sometimes, when he'd been working on something and ostensibly too distracted to notice her. Seen her reach out a hand and draw a fingertip oh so carefully and oh so softly along the sleeve of his jacket, or the cuff of his pants or the leather of his shoe, and the dizzy, soft, blissful look that would come over her face when she did so. Of the way she'd shut her eyes and take a deep, long, breathe in through her nose, smelling him. Of how she would put a dazed hand to her cheek after he'd struck her, feeling the reverberating sting of his fist, and smile goofily. Of how, in moments of tenderness her bliss was so intense it was almost excruciating for her. He knew his hand in her hair at that vulnerable moment would've elicited those thoughts. That her pain and her misery would be too ripe and bright by now for her to offer much resistance.

Yes, he could wait.

And then the door opened, and she moved in quickly, her face down in shame, her shoulders curled inwards.

"Come to Daddy, Baby" He opened his arms and she flew across the room into them. She curled herself into him as far as she would go; her face buried in his chest, and held him just a little too tightly with her enhanced strength. And he petted her head and stroked her hair and shushed her in all the right ways.

_I still got it_, he thought smugly to himself.

**---**

_Like all truly great liars Joker was capable of near abhorrent honesty with himself. He couldn't identify exactly what it was he was starting to feel when she was around he was quickly associating it with the fact that sometimes it was nice, or fun, or even desirable to dance with her by the docks or tell her wild stories of his past exploits while she rubbed his shoulders or tickle her until she stopped breathing or threw up, or wet herself._

_He was puzzling over the strange feelings, trying to decipher their mystery, but it was difficult because his mind didn't like to focus itself on any one thing for too long, and then he'd thought of his Vengeful Dark Knight, of course, he usually did several thousand times a day, give or take, and he had felt his heart give a little flutter, the all too familiar feeling of excitement and adoration._

_That had made him sit up straight. That little flutter - why, if it wasn't almost _exactly _like the little prickle he was starting to get around Harley. What Harley caused was a lot less intense and compelling, but it was there nonetheless._

_That was when he knew the girl had to die._

_The only trouble was, she really was very useful. She adored him, utterly and without question. Every action she took was designed to make his life easier in some way. He'd always frightened or intimidated his mooks into doing that sort of thing for him. But she brought something different with it. Her willingness made her more switched onto his finer needs, and more passionate about seeing them properly met. In short, she paid attention to the little details. Like during the colder months how she would press his slippers between her thighs in the last hour before they got out of bed so they'd be warm for his feet, or getting up early and sitting on the toilet to warm the porcelain seat for him. She always made sure his favourite sweets were on hand, organised the appointments with his tailor and kept a drawerful of clean spats and gloves. In the warmer months, she kept damp rags ever present for his forehead and neck, and icy-cold lemonade with extra sugar by the bucketful. And the best part was he didn't even have to ask. She just… somehow, she just _knew

_And whilst that was very useful and convenient, it was also extremely bothersome._

_Because… it was possible… he might've let her have one too many liberties with his mind._

_So, what the hell. Why not do things properly! One last time. Some of the guys passed the nights with drugs they somehow managed to get together (even in No Man's Land, heh), ecstasy and GHB, ice and coke. He appropriated a couple of pills, knowing it would make it all a bit easier. _

_Sure, he knew how to pretend these things. He'd done it before, with that producer woman that time. Soft hands, but strong ones. Harley liked to be guided, directed, controlled. And she wanted to kiss, deeply and long. Fine, fine, he could do that. Yes and the caressing and fondling and all the other rigmarole regular people got in such a tizz about._

_The e didn't have much effect on him. Most drugs didn't, considering his chemically altered blood, which wasn't that great when he was in pain, but he didn't think he felt pain as much as others did anyway. But she was swooning heavily, gasping at every stroke of his fingertips, clutching his shoulders, her head lolling. The champagne knocked her even further for a six and it kept her mostly still and her mouth off him so he could get down to things (quite literally… when he did things properly he did things _properly_ and her reactions were rather adorably hilarious at any rate.). Then, once she'd loosened up a bit he started doing what he needed to to really get into it himself and, as expected, she began to respond very favourably._

_With the drug in her system and drunk on her love for him, pain became just another intense sensation and if he was the cause of it, she learned to find ecstasy in it. She hadn't been a masochist when she came to Arkham as an intern, but she was well on her way to becoming one. How flattering it was, really, that she adored him so much she forced her body to learn to respond positively to his every touch, whether soft or harsh. Pity really he couldn't play this game a bit longer and see how far it was going to go… _

_And that was really the problem. That he was even thinking that way. Afterwards, with Harley curled up around him, her nose bloody, bite marks ruddy on her breasts and neck and an expression of sheer, contented bliss misting her features, he realised he'd enjoyed it a little too much. _

_That he'd even like to do it again. _

_That there were actual _good_ qualities to taking precious time out of his days to indulge in this sort of stupid degree of physical interaction with a twitty little blonde._

_It strengthened his resolve. The girl. Had. To. Die._

_He'd had everything all set up for a couple of days when he realised she was beginning to get dangerous. Hey, he always did things properly. He decided there was no point in delaying it any further - the sooner she was toast, the sooner he could get back to normal. _

_Anyway, it wasn't like she'd be gone, gone. He would always have the memories of her, after all. And he'd treasure those. In fact, as he penned her the note, he couldn't help but have a snicker over them. That lovely little doctor with her round glasses and prim little bun, coming all undone beneath the ministrations of his hands. Oh yes, he had some wonderful memories of her. All in all, it was for the best. Let's face it, he would kill her eventually anyway, in a fit of temper or boredom. This way was clearly the most apt – a beautiful big send off, worthy of that strange and uncomfortable tenderness she'd so unexpectedly elicited in him._

_Oh, but then that had made him angry, his hand twitching as he lay the note down on the pillow next to her head, and he'd gently cupped her cheek, feeling the swelling there. And just why in the heck would such a little ninny make him feel this way anyway? How dare she? How had she done it? She was trouble, she was. Couldn't be trusted. _

_Oh yeah. The girl _had _to die._

_Except she hadn't._

_It was vexing and very irritating and yet also oddly endearing. Kinda like ole Bats with his tenacity. _

_(Well, he knew in _theory_ he wanted Bats to die but he was always secretly thrilled when he didn't. It really meant he had to keep upping the stakes. And he'd been trying to see how far he could push Bats for yeeeears. Was he really always going to keep that 'no killing' rule? Joker really wanted to know. He wondered exactly what it was going to take. He kept trying and Bats just kept on resisting. He thought for sure offing Jason would seal his fate, but even that he'd resisted. Then again, little Jase had been a bit of a bad boy. He wondered if Bats was perhaps secretly relieved. Heh. That'd be a scream.)_

_So Harley hadn't died and somehow they'd wound back up together and, well, she'd survived so - well. _

_He wouldn't try to kill her again _straight away_. No Man's Land was so boring, on the whole, and she was at least more interesting than the dullards he surrounded himself with, and now that Pammy had juiced her up she was even more useful._

_Sometimes he would kiss her softly and constantly, until she bruised. Other times he'd gnaw her so that she bled. He loved to thrust his tongue as far into her throat as he could, liked to fantasise about her one day choking on it. That would be fitting._

_He'd left her behind in Metropolis once and she'd been furious, tracking him down in Gotham City, declaring her intentions to rend him limb from limb. He secretly thought it was hilarious whenever she threw a fit like that - as if, had she ever even conceivably succeeded, she would be able to live with _herself_. Even if she killed him, he'd end up killing her, indirectly. Sometimes he even slightly hoped she'd go through with it, to see it happen. _

_How did she think he'd gotten such a hold on her at Arkham had it not been for his ability to analyse and dissect her every vulnerability immediately?_

_"Baby!" He'd declared when she entered, costume hanging in tatters off her bruised body, eyes wild and teeth bared, "Thank goodness you made it! I was just about to send the boys out after you!"_

_That had brought her up short. "You were?" and the wild look had been replaced by a tender sort of hopefulness. Thing was, Harley was never really angry _at him.

_Oh, no. She was angry at _herself_. For not being able to keep up. For not keeping his interest focused. For not being _enough_. And what was anger, anyway, but fear dressed up for a night on the town?_

_And that's what it always came down to. Her fear. Fear of losing him. Of not being good enough. Not keeping him satisfied or happy. _

_He'd surveyed her with feigned dismay. "Oh, Punkin, what happened to you? You're in such a state! Do you need Daddy to kiss your boo boos?"_

_And she'd melted. He could actually see it. Her spine was as floppy as a piece of over-cooked spaghetti and a silly little grin had spread up her face._

_"Hyeah," she'd said dopily and he wrapped her up in his arms, pressed her head firmly against his chest and felt her go all soft._

_It had been easy to tear her costume off. Lexie's Brutal Broad had certainly done a number on his dame, and it had irritated him a little. Really, if anyone was going to make such a mess of her, it should be him. He'd wasted no time in covering up the bruises and grazes she'd left with savagery of his own, and Harley had blossomed beneath it, squealing contentedly._

_He'd grasped her throat in both hands and begun to squeeze. Asphyxiation was a nice, intimate way to kill someone. It felt so personal, so close, especially when he was inside her like that, feeling her all hot and wet and gripping, the softness of her breasts against his chest, the way her throat quivered in his grip. Beneath him Harley had choked, squeezed her eyes shut and he had moved one hand up to flick at her eyelids with his fingertips. She opened them again and he went back to strangling her. _

_She could kick him off. There was the rub, wasn't it. It wouldn't be difficult for her. She was stronger than he was, much, much stronger, thanks to dear ole Pammy and her special brew. Kick him off and kick the stuffing out of him. That wasn't the question._

_No the question was… _would she?

_She had gasped, gagged and thrust up with her hips. He had felt her muscles tighten around him and thrust a little harder. Ooh. That was nice._

_Her throat was soft beneath his hands, her hair tangling over his fingers. Her hands came flying up to her neck, her fingers scrabbled over his as she wheezed and then she let her arms flop back down by her side. He saw the change in her eyes. The sudden surrender. There was no resignation or despair in those baby blues, oh no, no. She relented to him with brutal willingness, her gaze soft with love and agonised bliss_. If I'm going to die, I'll do it happily_, that look seemed to say. _

_Now _that _was sexy._

_He had come with a loud grunt, his grip on her neck then so hard he thought he might kill her after all. Not that he cared much in those few blinding moments of bliss. Maybe, since he was going to kill her one day after all, this would be the way to do it. She'd probably appreciate it._

_But she was tenacious as Batsy, his little Harley Girl, and afterwards she had lain there and stared at him with such utter adoration it made him feel at once slightly perturbed and righteous. She loved him, as he knew he deserved to be. And he'd felt quite proud of himself and the hat trick he'd worked on her. Nothing but the best for The Joker._

_Then she had started talking again._

_"That was wonderful," she said it deliriously, slurring the word 'wonderful', which was a bit of a feat. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands pressed together between his splayed legs, enjoying the little aftershocks in his muscles. But you know. In the state she was in, Harley was ripe for a little afterplay. So he'd shrugged._

_"Well. It ate up some time."_

_Her face had fallen immediately. Wonderfully, completely into abject despair and she'd sat up, despite the fact it must've hurt a lot in a lot of different places and crawled over to his side._

_"What can I do better?" she implored, immediately knowing it must be some way in which she was lacking. He toyed with the idea of pushing that idea home a little more, but then decided it was as good a time as any to really start her training. To share a few real truths with her._

_"Harley, sex is ridiculous. The desire for it is ridiculous. The obsession with it is utterly ridiculous. Oh sure, as a physical act it's a pleasant enough experience but it's so messy and coarse and isolated, and all that grunting and sweating and thrusting about - how very silly people look!" And he'd chuckled to think of how he himself must've looked pumping into her. Ironically, he'd been left in a good enough mood by it to skim over the fact she'd been making him look ridiculous. She'd chewed a fingernail, bruised lower lip slack, eyes wet._

_"You seemed to enjoy it… during." She whispered meekly and he rolled his eyes._

_"Well, of course I enjoyed it. Have you ever noticed me doing anything I don't enjoy? It's just… there are things I'd enjoy …" and he'd fixed his gaze out across the dark room, a dark, close-mouthed smile stretching his mouth wide. "…_more._"_

_"Like what?" and her little paw was on his shoulder, clutching at him. "Tell me what. I'll do it. I'll do anything." Such raw desperation in her voice. He'd swivelled his head to look at her, feeling his grin become more sly and satisfied._

_"Anything?" He repeated, and she'd nodded her head briskly, her brows creased together, her eyes wide and hopeful._

_"Uh huh. Anything."_

_And he'd showed his teeth. _

_"Well." He hissed, "When you put it like that…"_

_Not too long after that, they'd stood together before the mirror, him with his hands resting gently on her shoulders, over a head above her, she naked and leaning back against his chest. He'd stroked her shoulders gently, reached up and brushed her straw-blonde hair off her forehead, smiled at her with as much tenderness as he was capable of._

_Together they'd looked at the marks she bore:_

_One eye was swollen nearly shut and her nostrils were rimmed in blood. Her lower lip was fat, a little cut in one corner. Her neck was a strange tie-dyed pattern of red and purple. He had to admit to a preference for choking her. There were swollen, dark bite marks on her arms and breasts, spotted bruises where he'd gripped her hard._

_Her eyes had flickered upwards in the reflection to meet his, a question in them. He'd nodded, his hands on either side of her head, softly stroking the lobes of her ears._

_She'd reached forward onto the dresser and picked up the old-fashioned razor blade, raised it up to him, her head turning to look up at him as she did so._

_He gently turned her head back towards the mirror, then took the razor from her fingers._

_The first cut made her whimper and he savoured it like it was a cry from Heaven. It made him shiver, that little noise, coupled with the way her terrified, anxious eyes remained fixed on their reflection, the way she strived not to tremble, how she leaned against him. _

_But most of all how she didn't flinch away. Her hands actually rested against his thighs, her fingers curling just a little against his flesh, as though for support, for comfort. Really! He thought he might've had to work her a little harder before this, but, well… Harley had surprised him again. _

_He was, after all, The Joker. He was just as likely to slit her throat as trim her hair or cut off her nose and she knew it. One could never predict exactly what he might do, what whim might take him and whether he would follow it through. But there, she was trusting him. Crazy, crazy, delightful little girl._

_He made the second cut a little deeper and she'd hissed in a sharp breath, pressing herself back against him, shutting her eyes. He lifted his free hand to her face and squeezed her cheeks together._

_"Open those pretty eyes, Cupcake. Daddy wants to see them burn for me."_

_Blood was pouring down her stomach in sticky, luscious streams and he wiggled the handle of the razor in between his forefinger and thumb as she obeyed him, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. He'd grinned darkly at her and bent a little to place his mouth by her ear._

_"See," he breathed. "This is sexy. This is wild. This is interesting." He let his hips bump against her rear, so she could feel he was rock hard. She immediately tried to twist around, making a grab for his cock. He batted her hand away and slapped the back of her head._

_"Don't ruin it." He snapped. "You're too attached to the physical."_

_The sudden movement had made her swoon anyway and she stayed very still after that._

_He kept the cuts precise and neat, perfect. He didn't want to disfigure her after all, and a messy job would do just that. He'd have to recut it over the next couple of weeks to ensure it would scar, of course, but the bloody mess then was a delight to look at._

_A beautiful, curling 'J' right between her perfect, perky breasts._

_Well, he did like to sign all his work._

_Slicing someone's flesh was not like hitting them. For some reason they tended to go into shock faster. It was the shattering sensation of the cut nerves, the rush of endorphins exploding to battle against them, the disbelieving shock of seeing such copious amounts of one's own blood pouring out of one's flesh, he thought. Harley had swayed, her eyelids half shut, then she'd passed out and he'd let her drop to the floor at his feet, crumpled into a pink and white little pile, one hand tossed up over her head, her face in an attitude of distressed rapture. _

_He stepped over her prone body and then crouched down and ran his tongue up the length of the cut; her blood sweet and hot. Then he'd grabbed her by the hair and dragged her over to the bathroom, whistling with gratified contentment, dumped her into the tub and switched the cold water on._

_Later on, with a mess of padding strapped to her pretty little breasts, she'd looked at him mournfully from the bed, all tangled up in the purple satin sheets and keeping very, very still so as not to cause any further aches and pains._

_"What is it?" he'd snapped irritably. He'd been lying back, head in hands, staring at the ceiling, letting his mind chase little thought clouds, making shapes and pictures out of them, some part of him still enjoying the knowledge she would let him scar her body, perhaps slightly intoxicated on the extent of his power over her. Maybe next time he'd push it even - _

_"You didn't - you know - "_

_He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I did." He said shortly and she'd looked down to his groin where he was still hard, riding high on the smell of her blood in the air._

_"But you're still - "_

_How could she not get it?_

_"That's irrelevant. It's meaningless." And he turned to her with one of his most especially beautiful smiles and patted her knee. "I got there, baby. I always get there."_

_The Joker didn't need to mess his pants to find bliss. Orgasm for him was a full body experience, which rarely involved ejaculation of any kind. Men often reported a moment of total blankness at the point of orgasm. For Joker it was a moment where everything around him increased in intensity. Every sound, sight, smell and taste became amplified even more so than it usually was, a barrage of sensation that had his head spinning. It was beautiful and fun, a bit like going on a roller-coaster when the track was out and the gears jammed on turbo speed. He loved it, but he didn't have to be thrusting his cock into something to achieve it. He could achieve it in all manner of ways. And sure, sometimes he just got off in the traditional sense, but life, death, mayhem, chaos and the glorifying of his name and the incomparable sight of his handiwork brought it to him just as easily._

_Harley never quite understood. Even when he showed her how to get there without the reliance on touching or traditional foreplay, she still hungered to be close to him, to have him touch her, to have him put bits of himself inside bits of her. He came to realise it was a fundamental part of her nature but he figured with enough time he could rub it out, as he'd eroded everything else about her._

_But even though he trained her well, so much so that so eventually just brushing his fingers across the back of her neck brought her to the cusp of orgasm, that she could get off on the ritual of kneeling by his side and polishing his shoes, or shiver convulsively from a certain look he gave her, she never really got it. She seemed to want to continue to walk the lines between the two worlds. _

_Of course, it probably would help if he himself could stop the ridiculous rolling about and thrusting in the bed with her. Trouble was, it really did feel awfully nice._

_Well, whatever. So long as it was ultimately all about him, he didn't care._

_And that was the best thing about Harley. In the end, it really was all about him._

**---**

She wasn't convinced they should sleep in the same bed. He knew that once she crossed that line, there would absolutely be no going back – not ever – and she seemed to know it too.

And she had worked so hard for her freedom and independence after all. Maybe it didn't mean anything without him, but she clearly didn't want to give it up without a fight.

And, really, he knew that was because the greater the struggle she put into holding onto it, the more giving it up would mean – in a few months time she could spin out romantic little fantasies in her head about how he'd just swept her away, her fighting all the way.

But he wasn't spending another day in her apartment alone.

"I feel bad about you sleeping on the couch, Pooh." He said with deep concern. "It's only a little couch."

"I'm only a little girl." She retorted meekly, wiping her splotchy face with one hand.

"But you've put a crick in your neck, I can tell." He said coddlingly, and she lifted a hand absent-mindedly to her neck, confirming it for him.

"Here!" He said, as though struck by inspiration, "We can lay the pillows down the centre of the bed like this, see. " He gathered a couple up and placed them down the middle of the bed. "And then this can be your half and this can be my half." He gestured with his hands and beamed at her. "Come on, Harley! You need a decent night's sleep!" He was careful to keep his coaxing voice just slightly entreating, with the merest hint of honey, and he saw her resolve falter.

"A – all right," she said, a little puzzled frown between her brows (so cute!).

She changed into her pajamas in the bathroom and he hopped into bed and curled up beneath the blankets, giggling to himself in anticipation.

She came back in and switched off the light, got under the covers and curled up on her side, as close to the edge as she could manage without falling off, tucked into a foetal position.

He lay on his back with his head turned towards her and waited.

He forced himself to be patient. It was difficult. Only the thought of her yielding everything she was to him once more made it possible.

He knew she was lying there awake, painfully aware of his proximity. Doubtless she was thinking about him, his body and how it used to feel when she curled herself up around it, his hands on her neck, on her face, his mouth on her stomach and ears.

After a couple of days of this pretence she was going mad, he was sure of it. Tingling with the urge to touch him, telling herself it was wrong, which would only be heightening her desire. That was the thing about Harley - she wanted to be good, but being bad felt so much better!

When he figured that – at least – ten minutes had passed he groaned and rolled onto his side, away from her.

He felt her turn to look at him. He made a little moan again and drew his knees up to his chest, muffling his giggles. Harley turned away once more.

He let another ten minutes pass, still having to silence the little bursts of laughter that shook up through his body. Then he flopped onto his back, raising both hands to his face and clawing at it. By now her eyes would've adjusted to the dark and she'd be able to see the gesture. He thought of her, lying there awake and wondering what he was thinking and what he was going to do – that would be_ killing_ her, knowing something was coming but not knowing what.

It made him hard and he decided to act.

He rolled to her and wrapped himself around her, pulling her close against him, her rear end straight in his groin, his face in her hair, his hands running up over her hips, her taut stomach, cupping her soft breasts. She gasped in shock and squirmed and he breathed into her ear:

"Oh Harley, Harley, I just can't help myself with you so close to me like this!"

"No, Mistah J, we can't." she said feebly, struggling against him.

"Why not?" He asked and nipped at her ear.

"Because…" She was desperately trying, fumbling weakly with his hands as they roamed her body, her voice breathless and catching, "Because we're not together anymore. We have different lives, different needs…"

He chuckled, deep and low.

"Oh Harley," He slipped his fingertips beneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms, grazing her pelvic bone so that she gasped. "I think we still share at least _one _need." He kept his hands soft, but drove his crotch harder into her and was gratified by the moan she made, raw with desire.

"No - - " She managed, her legs twining with his, pushing back against him with her rear end.

"And," He licked his lips and pressed them against her neck, breathing against her. "We were always dynamite together."

And that was true.

He felt her falter, her body tremble, the relaxing of her muscles as she came close to relenting. Then she tightened up again, continued to try to pull away from him (oh, but she could, if she REALLY wanted to, couldn't she?) and he couldn't help but grin a little wider. It wouldn't be as much fun if she gave in too easily. And he wasn't having to fake it now; he was excited and aroused by her tenacity, her determination to maintain the boundaries between them.

She wasn't going to.

"Harley, I have to have you," he whispered, and pulled her onto her back, their breath coming ragged and hard in a syncopated rhythm in the darkness, and he tugged at her pyjama bottoms. "And I'm not going to take no for answer." She didn't know how true it was. Eventually, he was going to have all of her.

"Nooo…" She moaned softly, but lifted her hips as he pulled her pajama bottoms off.

When he had her lower half bared, he pulled himself out through the fly of his pants and stretched himself out on top of her. She was still struggling and pleading with him softly, saying they couldn't, that it was wrong, but her thighs parted of their own accord and when he brushed himself gently against her opening he could feel the wetness there.

And even though he always thought people were far too attached to simplistic physicality, he had to admit it felt quite delicious.

She pushed up at his shoulders and he caught her wrists and pinned them down. The whole thing was hot, hot, hot. He hadn't figured he'd find it so, but her faked resistance was really turning him on. She could kick him across the room, if she really wanted to. He knew it, and she knew it, and she knew he knew it. But she still needed to tell herself she didn't want this, had to pretend she was being coerced into it. He'd play along, he didn't mind. If it made her feel better. Hey, he always tried to make his girl happy! Well – never mind.

And now, the killing blow, he thought, wishing he had a drum roll to accompany this moment.

He bent down through the darkness and found her lips with his own. He brushed them softly, tasting them, flickering his tongue against them. He felt her body twitch beneath him. Then he kissed her properly, capturing her mouth into his own, gratified by the deep, thrumming groan that rose up from her throat as he did so.

He had to fight back to the urge to fill her lungs with his laughter when she raised her hips off the mattress, trying to urge him inside her. He teased her a moment longer, just letting himself press softly against her wetness, until she thrust up again, more desperately this time, even as he held her head firmly with one hand and her wrists up above in the other and devoured her with a kiss. Then he pushed inside her.

"Oh," he said surprised, breaking the kiss. "This is very nice." He'd forgotten.

It wasn't the all over intense body pleasure he got when she pleased him in other ways, but it was pretty damn good.

He kissed her, nibbled her neck, squeezed and sucked on her nipples; did all the things he knew would be meaningful to her, that she'd enjoy. It would've been boring at any other time, but at this time, when she was still trying so hard to resist, it piqued his interest. He forced himself not to go too slow and to keep up a constant thrusting – whereas for most men the desire was to go quickly, to reach orgasm, that point was of so little importance to him that he could often forget about it during and get distracted by other things. Harley actually seemed to appreciate that, but he didn't think now was the time. She had started to make a great deal of noise beneath him and he'd let go of her hands so she could entwine them around his neck. Now that they were really down to things, she'd given up on pretending to resist and squeezed her legs tight around his waist, urging his butt downwards with her ankles, her hands moving frantically through his hair, down over his neck and back, pulling him hard and close against her. He enjoyed the feel of her need, of her trying to devour him through touch, her mouth against his ear and cheek, desperately against his own.

Of course, the real litmus test of how much work he had left to do was how long it would take her to…

Even as the thought passed, her hips bucked up, she squeezed his shoulders tight, her head tipped back and a little moan rose in volume as her muscles contracted rapidly around him. Oh. That was almost disappointingly easy. At the same time, it was immensely gratifying, the all too visceral experience of his hold over her.

He revelled in that power for a while when she was done, feeling it around him in waves, palpable and delicious, dancing off his skin. He laughed and he felt her smile through the darkness. It brought him joy, then.

His thrusting grew more regular and a little quicker. It wasn't bad at all. In fact, hell, it was great. She was crying and clinging to him, and asking him to go a little harder, a little faster.

She came again before long and he laughed and she shivered at the sound and her head rolled about deliriously.

Right. Perfect. Now, if she would only stop crying.

In a way it was enormously gratifying, to have the warm little bundle pressed tight against him, absolutely quivering with need while he took pleasure from her. But the weeping was tiresome.

"Please." She begged him, all pride lost. "Please, don't ever leave again. Please. Please."

He lifted her face up and kissed away her tears, then kissed her. That made her quiet.

"Please, Daddy," she murmured and he bit her lip hard and tasted blood, twined his fingers in her hair, wrapped his other hand around her throat, feeling her pulse beating rapidly. He imagined crushing it, stopping it altogether, silencing her heart for good and he thrust harder. One day he would.

When he came, everything stopped for a moment and he felt arrested in time, gripped there with Harley wrapped around him, absolutely bombarded with an assault of sensation, curiously focused and isolated, but delightful nonetheless. He revelled in it for several long moments, vaguely aware that he was smothering Harley, was pulling at her hair too hard, biting her cheek far too sharply and it occurred to him he was very generous to share so much of his ecstasy with her.

When he was finished he slumped down on top of her and felt her shift just a little, turning her face inwards to his neck, pressing feather-light kisses there, her fingertips shifting gently through his hair.

He rolled off abruptly snapped on the bedside light then looked at her.

She was absolutely dishevelled, her neck red and her cheek and lip bleeding, her hair in disarray, stuck up at odd angles all around her head. She also looked unutterably contented, her face smeared with bliss, eyes half-lidded and a silly little smile on her face. Now, there was his Harley. He felt very proud of himself.

"I been waitin' for you to do that since the second ya walked in." She drooled and he pounced on her pinning her shoulders to the mattress.

"_What?_´ he screamed, "_Why didn't you say so?"_

Her face was stricken with fear and alarm as he gnashed his teeth in her face, livid with rage.

"I'm s-s-sorry, Puddin'!" She gasped. "I was just so – so – so confused and all!"

He abruptly relented, his snarl becoming a smile, relaxing his grip and sliding back beside her.

"Well, Pooh, it wasn't all bad, I suppose," he chuckled, thinking of the Ciccolinas downstairs and the girls on Harley's battered women's forum, as well as some of the fun he'd had toying with Harley's own 'sane' mind (sane, phah! Those doctor's should really all have their licenses revoked. Then again, perhaps it hadn't been a fair fight, going up against _him_ and his handiwork). Beside him Harley blinked uncertainly for a few seconds, before visibly relaxing. He looked at her and pinched her cheek. And what they'd just done had definitely been hot. Probably that was why he was going so easy on her. He'd maybe enjoyed it a little too much though – better keep on eye on her over the next week. It might finally be time to dispose of her permanently.

Harley snuggled close to him, nuzzling at his underarm and reaching up to toy with one nipple. She looked all loose and floppy and he wondered if she was capable of walking. Well, one way to find out…

He lifted a hand to her breast and traced the scarred J that was there. It was fainter than it had been a few years ago. When he touched it a strange look transfixed Harley's face, one of sheer subservient bliss

"I think perhaps we need to do this again, Pet."

She didn't even hesitate, just nodded, looking up at him with stupid, trusting blue eyes. He leaned in close to her and breathed:

"Go get Daddy something sharp, Punkin."

---

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note: **__The content gets stronger still. If you were expecting bunnies and rainbows heading into this fic, then I don't know what to tell you. It's JokerxHarley for pete's sake!_

**---**

He woke up feeling curiously warm and with a smile on his face. His mind buzzed frantically but his limbs felt relaxed and settled. Beside him, Harley stirred and shifted in the bed.

He felt her curl her body around his, her hands coming around his waist to reach up over his chest, stroking his nipples. He reached back with one arm and patted her hip, sliding his hand to rest in the small of her back. He heard her sigh happily. He was feeling oddly content himself. And peckish.

"Harley, why don't get you get Daddy some breakfast." He murmured and she kissed his shoulder and got up.

"Okay, Mistah J." She spoke softly but the cheery lightness in her voice was back and he smiled into his pillow as he heard her leave the room.

He stretched, rolling over onto his back, spreading his legs wide. The little bed was just a couple of inches shorter than he was and he was looking forward to moving on. He turned his head to one side and saw blood spattered across the sheets.

Heh. Oh yeah.

The memories of the night before flitted through his mind like playful snatches of a beloved song and he shut his eyes and enjoyed their recollection. Yes, last night had been good fun. His throat was dry.

He opened his eyes and looked at Harley's bedside table. There was a glass of water there and he propped himself up for a sip and as he did so noticed Harley's hot pink mobile phone next to it.

Hrmmm.

Thoughtfully, he picked it up and flipped open the lid and began to scroll through the names there.

_Amy_, he knew that one, _Becca, Corrin, Debbie, Felicity, Guy…_

Guy!

A very sly and nasty smile moved up The Joker's face as he selected _Compose New Message._

_Guy, _he wrote, beginning the message with his typically precise spelling, then realising his telling error, quickly deleting it and starting anew: _i nd 2 c u. cn i cum over l8r? x mandy_

Chuckling he put the phone back down and lazily scratched himself, wondering why it was taking Harley so long to get his breakfast. Didn't she know he was _hungry_?

The phone beeped.

Oooh, already! Guy was keen on his little Harley-Pie, that was for sure. He quickly snatched the phone up and read the message.

_Sure thng gr8 2 her frm u. addy 6/148 hills drv, upper west xxx_

Heh. He memorised the address, then deleted the message and put the phone back down.

Harley came in bearing a tray, a sunny smile and a bloody chest. She'd even put a little flower on the tray. That's what he liked to see. Attention to the little details.

"Here we go, Mistah J," she sang to him, her hair a bird's nest around her face. "Your little Harleykins has brought you sustenance."

She placed the tray on his lap as he sat up, rubbing his hands gleefully. Harley had really outdone herself today! There was bacon _and_ sausages, hashbrowns, eggs, lots and lots of hollandaise, haloumi, three types of jam and plenty of toast, his sugar bowl and a bowl of cheerios. And coffee. And orange juice. He mixed a spoonful each of strawberry, blackcurrant and mango jam and dolloped it onto his toast then carefully sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar over his sausages and bacon. Mmmm.

Harley watched him happily, then leaned over and breathed in his ear. "I know you'll be needin' it after your work out last night!" She giggled coyly and he pushed her off. Eating.

She was unfazed, and picked up her phone. "Huh, that's funny."

"What's that, Pooh?" he said, not looking up from his meal.

"I thought I heard a message come in." she looked at him questioningly and he widened his eyes, shrugging slightly.

"I didn't hear anything."

"Huh." She put the phone back down and he felt a little naughty.

"In fact," he continued innocently, "Your phone hasn't rung once the last three days. "

She flinched a little and he grinned around a mouthful of sugary bacon.

"Well," she said stoutly, "None of those bums matter now you're back."

And turned a look of such sickening adoration upon him that he wanted to photograph it, then kick her in the face. And photograph that.

She lay beside him and watched him eat, her head propped up on one hand, absolute contentment on her face. Now and again she lifted a hand to her chest and gently fingered the reopened cut there, pleasurably wincing a little each time. Her throat was once again ringed with purple bruises, the bite mark on her cheek was almost black and she bore many other little spots and specks as the evidence of their night together. He knew she liked to have something she could look at the next day. In point of fact, he'd caught her in front of the mirror on several occasions in the past, playing her fingertips over her various bruises and cuts, smiling daffily. Sometimes she was even touching herself while she did it, and he found that very cute. It was certainly sexier than when she put on any of that ridiculous underwear and paraded herself about in the desperate bid for his amorous attentions. Sure, it was nice she wanted him so badly, but it was more arousing that even when he wasn't around she still had to find a way to evoke him.

He cleaned his plate and burped loudly, to which Harley obligingly giggled. No sooner had she taken the tray off his lap and placed it on the floor beside the bed then she was snuggling close against him, her naked breasts brushing against his arm, her hand slipping beneath the sheets. Joker rolled his eyes.

"Again?" He asked her and she made puppy-dog eyes at him.

"But Puddin', it's been _three years_." She said piteously, "Can you blame ya Harley for feeling like her motor needs a little hard drivin'?" and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

He assessed the situation. Now that he had his property back, it was really time to get onto what was most important – namely, Batsy, and letting Batsy know he was back. If the three years had been killing Harley, he hated to think what they had been doing to his dear, Dark Knight.

It was also important that he not be too lenient with Harley, lestways she become too demanding. She was already more than demanding enough _thankyouverymuch._

But Harley liked to be reminded who she belonged to. It made her feel secure. Best not leave her doubting. Better clinch the deal and screw her again.

But first… there was the little matter of her _behaviour._

He smiled at Harley, a mean, sinister smile and she saw it and her gaze grew wary.

"Harley," he said. "You weren't very polite to me yesterday when you got home."

She bit her lip, her eyes growing rounder. He continued.

"In fact, you haven't been terribly nice to me since I got here. Have you?"

"Puddin', I – " she began.

"Don't interrupt." He snapped. "I went to all the trouble of finding you, despite injury and strife, and what happens? You give me the cold shoulder! Feed me this line about our relationship being over, and leave me alone in this wretched place for no less than three days – _all_ by myself! You talk back to me! You shout at me! And then you have the gall to get angry when I find ways to amuse myself while you're off on whatever selfish, self-centred little missions you're gallivanting about the town with!" His voice had risen as he spoke, and he was rising up off the bed. She was cowering back against the pillows, her head ducked and a look of mournful wretchedness on her face.

"Puddin', it's just that – "

He shook his head sadly, dropping his voice again. "There really aren't any excuses, Harley. Are there?"

She sniffled in response.

He leaned across the bed and stuck his face close to hers, making his voice gentle.

"Are there?"

Tears had welled in her eyes and her lower lip was stuck out as she raised her eyes to his, chin wobbling hopelessly.

"I'm s-sorry," she stammered, "it's just I been so c-confused. I d-din't know w-what to do. Please, please don't be mad at me Puddin'!" And she leapt forward placing the palms of her hands on his chest, entreating him. "Please! I couldn't stand it after all this time!"

Heh. Yes, he imagined that would be hurting quite a lot. He enjoyed the thought for a second and then took her hands in his, lifting them off his chest.

"But Pet, you can't ask me to go easy on you, 'after all this time'. You've grown far too lax – too undisciplined. I couldn't responsibly let it go, could I?"

She stared at him with wide, wet eyes for a long broken moment before lowering them, her shoulders sinking, her hands going limp in his.

"Do whatever you need to." She sniffled. "Just please don't be mad at me."

He smiled, wide and bright.

"I'm glad you understand, Baby. It convinces me we really can work out anything together." He stroked her head gently for a second then slammed his other fist into her gut.

She barely made a sound as he kicked and punched her, knocking her onto the floor. She raised her arms at one point to cover her head, but he knocked them away, and then slammed her head into the wall a couple of times to make the point. After that she lay there, whimpering a little, but otherwise just keeping her eyes squeezed shut and her lips pressed tight together. He wasn't getting a lot of enjoyment out of it – he felt oddly indifferent and detached, in fact. It wasn't like other times when it was all for kicks (heh – literally!). The thing was, he wasn't _really_ angry at all. Sure, he'd been angry over the last few days, but he wasn't especially the type to hold a grudge against his little Punkin Pie For too long.

He just knew she needed the discipline. Letting her think he was angry would probably be more hurtful to her, but she'd also spend a lot more time needling and wheedling at him to forgive her and that'd she do _anything_ if he'd just _forgive _her. It was always easiest to pull that sort of thing just before she went into Arkham – he liked to think of her crying and hysterical in her cell, requiring constant sedation so keen and unrelenting was the pain of knowing he was angry at her and not being able to do anything about it.

So this way was easiest to make a short point. What did she need to do for him to forgive her? Why, whatever he wanted. If she'd do anything, she could take a beating. She seemed to need the pain anyway, to remind her. Who she was. Who she belonged to.

He stopped before she could fade out, go somewhere else where the pain couldn't reach her, then pinned her to the carpet. A huge eggplant coloured bruise was flaring up on her head and a trickle of blood escaped the corner of her mouth and she opened her eyes and looked at him with absolute surrender, calm and willing.

It aroused him and a second later he was inside her and pounding for all he was worth.

He held her down and rode her as hard as he could, with all the viciousness and savagery he had in him, every ounce of strength he possessed poured into it. At first he could tell that she liked it, she kept her body relaxed, her legs splayed, kneading at his shoulders with her hands and staring into his eyes. He knew that was difficult for her to do, sometimes, and that made it all the more powerful. He grinned at her nastily, lecherously, and kept up the pace.

Time passed, he didn't know how much, and still he kept at it and she began showing signs of discomfort, of pain. Holding back from ejaculation was not an issue for him and the more Harley began to whimper, to twitch, to wiggle beneath him, the harder she tried to hold back her cries, to not let her tears fall, the more little jolts of pleasure ran through his body, the full body bliss he preferred.

It was unpleasant, but necessary. Well, unpleasant for her at any rate. Him, he was rather enjoying himself. After all, if she wanted him to stop, she could just throw him off, couldn't she?

Harley had shut her eyes and was grinding her teeth. Her body had tensed up, which wouldn't be helping, but it seemed a knee-jerk reaction. He drove on, regardless.

"Please," she managed to whisper between clenched teeth. "Please."

"Isn't this what you wanted, Baby?" he cooed and she sobbed.

"Please, Mistah J. I think I'm bleeding."

"Really? And he leant down, leering, whispering against her bruised cheek. "You just feel all nice and wet to me."

But he still needed her functional.

He drew out of her and sat up on his knees, hauling her by her messy ponytails towards him. She hesitated only a second before taking his cock in her mouth, slick and speckled red with her blood. Now THAT was good. He didn't really notice the feeling of her mouth around him, no it was more the way she looked. Her face was swollen and blotchy, her eyes red rimmed and filled with the sort of despair and desperation that only a truly mad love could elicit. He let himself go and when she felt it, a wild fervour suddenly bloomed upon her face and she pushed herself forward, grasping his buttocks in both hands and swallowing.

He chuckled, feeling absolute delight with how things had played out. Yes, yes, his Harley was back, there was no doubt about it, and he cupped her face and patted her cheek gently whilst letting out a long, gusting sigh.

"Good girl." He smiled down at her and her face lit up.

Feeling somewhat weak in the knees, he crawled back over to the bed and pulled himself up on it and she followed, wincing a little. He let her snuggle up close to him, sheltering her beneath one arm, and reaching his other hand down between her legs, cupping her softly. She still winced. She felt swollen and enflamed and he felt the wetness of blood on his fingertips.

"Hows my little Punkin feeling?" he queried her and she stared blankly out across the room, genuinely considering the question before answering.

He stroked his thumb gently over her mound and slowly her face lit up with a soft look of pure, unmitigated realisation, her swollen lips curving upwards in a delighted smile.

"I feel reborn." She said joyously, and he laughed.

---

_Harley had been the only one._

_Oh sure, there'd been others. But Harley had been the only _one

_There had been Terry, of course. Dear, dear, demented Terry. She had really believed, really, truly, utterly believed she could change him. Make of him a whole and sane man. He used to lock himself in the bathroom and giggle over it, over her blind, frenzied naivety. _

_She had bought his weeping schtick, her restrained and refined little heart had positively gone to gloop at it and he knew he had her within his tightly closing fist. _

_She had been disappointingly easy to control, all too keen to do what he directed and all he had to do was threaten to leave her if she didn't. She'd led such a wretchedly lonely little life, had become so entwined with her mission to deliver him, that the very notion of it horror-struck her into compliance._

_One week she couldn't even contemplate hurting another living soul, the next she was battering him with a lead pipe. And so it went on and her descent had been somewhat entertaining to witness._

_But Terry - sigh – Terry never took any real pleasure in it. She found it necessary to believe herself a victim, persuaded and coerced – she never just cut loose and let go and really had fun with it all. He found that so disgustingly hypocritical it was almost endearing; but ultimately not enough. _

_It was difficult for him, to recall the precise details. He knew there had been a lot of blood, there always was, and a lot of tears but a great deal more laughter. He knew he had amused himself with cruel taunts and vicious threats of leaving her, of despising her, of forgetting her and that she had become no more than a little wind-up doll for him to toy with. _

_All of the facts were there, of course, buried somewhere in the great labyrinthine library that was his mind – but it never seemed important enough – not to mention at all relevant to whatever he was up to – to concentrate with enough focus to call them all to mind. _

_Terry had been no more than a ftzing little buzz of a synapse firing; useful at the time but ultimately meaningless. This had been before Harley of course, and he'd definitely had his fun toying with her vulnerable little brain, but ultimately Terry had turned out to be… a disappointment. _

_Kinda like a sketch, really. A first draft._

_Then Cassandra – heh heh – cunning little Cassie. She'd been drawn to him for the same reason anyone foolhardy enough to be was: power. His power. His magnetism. His charisma._

_It thrilled and titillated her. In many ways she was another Terry – someone trapped so deeply within a cocoon of their own making, that he was like a typhoon, hurtling around them and wrenching the web away, revealing the inner selves their ambition had always clouded but never entirely consumed. Cassie had approached him out of curiosity, drawn to his mystery and legend. It was an impact he had on all people he encountered, though with varying effects. Most were terrified of it. Some were titillated. Still others were both. _

_Cassie had wanted romantic, passionate sex and he'd given it to her – at first. But escalation is a lovely thing, utterly charming in its inevitably. _

_As she became more and more sucked into the hurricane's eye that stood at the centre of all he wrought simply by existing, she was more and more desirous to push it to the edge – to experience "the real" him. He'd given it to her – within reason, after all she still needed to comply with his wishes and he had so many wishes – he'd beaten her and slapped her, humiliated her and fucked her until she bled and she became more and more undone. _

_Not that Cluey Cass had ever loved him – oh, no. Ultimately, she used him as much as he did her. Through him she saw her future assured – millions and millions of dollars pouring into her lap as she flogged his name like a dead horse. Cass would do anything for a rating. _

_But she had, nonetheless, been enthralled by him and keen to please._

_Of course, she'd been less than nothing to him. While her and that miserable television station kept him locked up, she was his access to silk suits and leather wingtips, clean spats, fine cigars and wine – and all the other little sundries he required. Which included fixing the particulars of the little TV show they did to his liking. It had been to his advantage to screw her, but it had felt like an interminable chore at times. The only thing that could get him off was knowing if he said _stoop_, she'd say _how low_. And then making it happen. _

_Then there had been that goddamned godforsaken alien planet he was banished to with a mess of losers and wannabes. And there'd been a girl. Who seemed to think she was some sort of clown. Bad outfit. Very bad. No style at all._

_He hadn't been paying that much attention to her and had not yet once found himself motivated to scoop the depths of his brain for the accompanying detail that had no doubt been stored away. That irritated him, actually. He hadn't yet found a limit to the amount _of information he could file in there_, but if he ever did, then hidden information about that girl was taking up precious space. She had latched onto him, for the same reason all the others did; he was so powerful and so charming and so compelling, blah-de-blah-blah-blah. _

_She was gutsy, he could give her that much, she actually touched him without direct permission. Then again, it was fairly difficult for her to get direct permission when he never actually looked at her or spoke to her. There had been an element of amusement in it, of course – there he was, stranded with a bunch of muscle-bound, super-powered macho villains, and he was the only one getting any tail. So he'd allowed it, because he liked to rub these sorts of things in. _

_All the ladies who'd been shipped along were far too ferocious, independent and outright _dangerous_ to safely hit on and most thought too damn well of themselves to express interest in any of the idiotic cretins he'd been obliged to share precious air with. He seemed to recall spreading a couple of insinuations that a few of the ladies had teeth where no lady should have teeth, to further disconcert a couple of the boys. It had been funny watching their faces, that was for sure, and the way they covertly avoided said ladies afterwards. _

_But the girl, yes the girl had followed him around and pawed him and chattered in his ear, and adored him and while he just couldn't muster enough interest to kill her, she was virtually useless. He seemed to recall allowing her to give him a blowjob a few times when he'd been particularly mind-crushingly bored, and he'd amused himself after he discovered that anything he tossed aside she would run and fetch. But she just hadn't merited anything more. She had nothing to offer him after all._

_But then, when he hadn't seen Harley for a while, when he hadn't thought of her for a time, when he drew her recollection to be one of the forefront thoughts in his mind, she seemed to have two faces. One gently laid over Harley's own, like a reflection or a projection, its features mingling with hers, blurred and indistinct. It always made him laugh softly, quietly to himself, increased his fervour to destroy and desecrate. The sight of it always made him believe ever more fervently in his grand vision, drove home the inherent meaningless of order and structure, what empty comforts these were for the mindless masses. The joke was – ha ha – he wasn't sure _why_ that vision should make him feel ever more so._

_Sometimes, in the long hours he spent strolling the borders between wakefulness and slumber, numb and blanked out, moving through the vast and twisting paths of his mind, delving further and further into its rotting core, he'd catch sight of her. Fleeting and smiling. _

_He didn't know who she was. He couldn't ever really see her face properly. Except that she had a soft smile and blonde hair. Sometimes she had a great round belly, and sometimes she was slim as a reed. Sometimes she came close enough to kiss him and sometimes she kept her distance. Most of the time he was vaguely curious about her, but not perturbed. She did no harm there, buried in the depths of his mind, so he was happy to let her play. _

_Other times it was as though she reached out, reached into his chest, delving though the flesh and bone and marrow, and plucked gently at some sticky, stringy strand of him, striking a resonant chord. When she did that, he wanted to smother her. But then she would vanish. _

_But those times were scarce._

_Sometimes Harley, with her own blonde hair and loving, smiling face, reminded him of her, whoever she was, and that somewhat agitated him. _

_Those times were scarcer._

_He knew that somehow, Harley was a connection to this woman, and through that, to his – other self? No, that wasn't accurate. But something. Something. Something he couldn't name or describe, mainly because he didn't really care enough to. It was only rarely bothersome after all, usually in Arkham when the whole place was shut down, or when he'd been out on his own for an especially long period of time._

_To be truthful, he wasn't even sure if she had ever been real of if she was just an abstract embodiment of what he'd been – _before

_Either way – she stood as no impediment to what he was _now

_And there had been one other time – just the once – where he had felt the shadows of some past fantasy stroke a ghostly finger down his neck. Councilwoman Kenner, her name had been, and she meant nothing to him except for what reaction he could get out of Bats. He'd been going to kill her. He could already feel the heat of her blood pouring over his hands, the desperate pumping of her heart as her life left her, with the spray of sea water and the roar of the boat engine a savage snarl, the beat of the helicopters like monstrous wings tearing the sky, her hair soft and slippery and snarled around his fingers. A cacophony of intoxicating sensations that had him licking his lips with anticipation._

_Then, he'd looked at Councilwoman Kenner and seen another woman's face. Another blonde. Pretty and soft looking. And for some reason he'd let Kenner go. _

_Later on, he had been furious with himself and had immediately tracked Kenner down and slaughtered her. And her children, for good measure. Then he'd decided it was what he had intended to do all along – her fear was all the more tasty for thinking she'd escaped and Batman's blistering fury had been all the more luscious. Yes. Just driving the point home a little harder. _

_But that – that had been yeeeeeeears ago. He'd been only three or four years old at the time. A little childishness was to be expected. And ultimately, it had just helped him improve and push ever harder to exceed himself. _

_He thought maybe that blonde face skittered somewhere ensconced within the folds of his grey matter, but he'd never bothered to check. What was the point?_

_And that was it, really. At the end of the day, Harley was the only one who was _memorable

_Harley was the only one who actually stuck. Who could make him quiver with rage or shake with laughter or feel some visceral hunger to have her nearby and doing whatever she had to in order to make him happy. Who had something to offer, something that could actually put a smile on his face, or have him turning to share the joke with her even when she wasn't there. (Though that would always infuriate him) Harley actually went to some _real effort_. She found herself a costume – a fantastic costume – she had an alias, a fun alias, a fabulous alias. She had accessories and trademarks. _

_Harley got pleasure out of what they did – she loved it, in fact. Revelled in it. And even if she didn't, she learned to – for his sake._

_Yes, he had power over her. Yes, she was aware of the power he had over everyone. But she loved him far beyond that. She loved the twisted, perverse ways in which his mind worked, she loved him for his brilliance and insight, for his poetic spirit and his love of the classics. She had a million things she loved _about_ him, but ultimately, she just loved _him_. He, who had committed some of the most heinous acts perpetrated by any one man in history. He, who mocked life, law, faith, civilisation and society and who venerated chaos, mayhem, murder, anarchy and absolute disintegration. He, of whom other super villains were afraid. He, whose twisted mind had bent not only the likes of The Spectre, of Judge Death but J'onn Effing J'onzz. For the likes of him to say _take me as I am_, and have someone actually _take him up on it_, well…_

_Harley didn't expect him to change. Harley didn't want him to change. Harley appreciated him for all that he was. She adored him for it. She gave up everything for it. There was no half-way for Harley. No, she poured her heart and soul into everything she did, including loving him. It was… impressive. It was _worthy

_Yes, Harley really was the only one._

---

She didn't have a car, but that gave him the opportunity to test her ability to bounce back into the game. She didn't do too badly at all, considering. A quick carjacking in the back alley, she waving it down as the damsel in distress, he gave the driver a bullet to the forehead, and they had themselves a decent set of wheels.

He could see she was exhilarated, riding high on the adrenalin from the theft and he smiled indulgently at her. She was so much more… effervescent now. Back to her old self. She'd been so _sedate_ before, and it just didn't work for her.

She was dressed in cut off jean shorts decorated with strands of rhinestones and pink marabou and a little pink top with the words in sparkly letters across the front: _Daddy's Girl._ She'd dug it out of the very bottom of one of her drawers, explaining with a bashful smile she'd bought it in the kid's section of Walmart one time, unable to resist. But she hadn't yet worn it. It made him laugh.

"Where to, Boss?" she chirruped and he gave her the address. She didn't comment on it, or react in anyway except to say: "Anything you say, Mistah J!" which indicated to him she hadn't been there before.

Which he found disturbingly reassuring.

One Hundred and Forty Eight Hills Drive was in an upscale neighbourhood. The apartment block was a boutique set, only eight in all.

Yes, fitting abode indeed for a top player on the city's venerated Basketball Team.

He had Harley stand in front of the keyhole when he rang the bell.

"Who we visitin' Puddin?" she queried him curiously as the chime went off inside.

"Shhhh," he giggled, a finger to his lips, ducking back against the wall.

There was a click from inside and the door swung open. He watched Harley's expression change to one of astonishment.

"Guy?"

"Mandy? God, what the hell happened to – "

"SURPRISE!" Joker cried and jumped in front of Harley, shoving Guy backwards into his apartment. He stalked in after the man who stumbled away from the leering clown in shock.

Harley followed him quickly and shut the door.

"Mistah J, what's goin' on? What are we doin' here?"

Guy was only two inches shorter than The Joker and as his eyes swept from Harley back to Joker, he was clearly struck with a moment of heroism.

He lurched forward, arms out and prepared to grab, and Joker ducked out of the way, sending Guy slamming into the wall. Guy shook his head dazedly and swung again. Joker dodged it neatly, side-stepping, then spun towards the door, grasped the umbrella from the stand and drove the blunt point of it straight into Guy's gut, winding him. He then flipped it over and swung it upwards, catching Guy hard on the jaw with the handle.

Guy grunted and went down, dazed.

Harley was watching from a corner, pressed up against a wall with wide and startled eyes.

Joker drew his gun and cocked it at the boy.

"Are you comfortable there? Okay? Good!"

"Wh-what do you want?" Guy stammered, clutching his stomach and gazing up at Joker disbelievingly. "Is this some kinda joke? Is Mick behind this? Mandy?"

He looked desperately at Harley who ducked back against the wall, an expression of uncertainty creasing her pretty, bruised features.

Joker rolled his eyes. "Do I _look_ like a joke?" He demanded. It was actually funny how many people assumed he couldn't really be who he was – that he was so much the stuff of legend that they couldn't possibly ever encounter him. Which was fair enough, he supposed. Why would the proletariats be privileged enough to merit a visit from his own grand self?

He inspected Guy. My, my. Whatever had Harley been thinking? Guy wasn't a patch on his own charming, handsome self, but then he hadn't really expected he would be. Still, he was disappointingly average. Reddish-brown hair, deep tanned skin, a vacant, deer-in-the-headlights look on his dopily gentle face. Long features, heavy brows. Quite muscular – of course, he'd have to be – but altogether, at the end of it all, _common_. He felt curiously vindicated.

Guy didn't seem to know what to say in response. His eyes flickered to the gun and then back up at Joker's face, then across to Harley who continued to cower uselessly against the wall, chewing her lip, then back to Joker once more.

Joker cocked his gun. "I'd lay odds you're assessing whether or not you can knock me over before I get off a shot." He smiled, wide and vicious. "Trust me. You can't."

Guy relaxed, his brow creasing downwards, grimacing with frustration. "Just take what you want and leave."

"Oh please, " Joker snorted derisively. "As if _you_ could have anything that would possibly be of any interest to _me_. I, on the other hand…" and he sidled his glance over to Harley. Guy followed it.

"Mandy?" Guy said again.

"Guess again, bright spark!" Joker whooped gleefully and spun the gun around one finger before aiming it again, striding over to where Guy was and pressing the butt of it against his temple. Despite himself, Guy flinched, then became very still, his breath rising.

"The simple fact of the matter, Guy, is that I don't like people touching my things." Joker explained reasonably. "Call me mean, call me greedy, call me possessive but I don't share my toys. You get me?"

Guy looked confused and glanced at Harley again. "Mandy?" he said for the third time and Joker lost his temper.

"No!" He said backhanding Guy with the butt of the gun. "Mine!"

Guy spat out a mouthful of blood and looked up at Joker, perhaps suddenly realising for the first time exactly the situation he was in. "I'm s-sorry man, I didn't know!"

"Oh Guy," Joker clucked his tongue in a friendly fashion and crouched down beside where Guy sprawled and trembled. "Of course you didn't! How could you! With her new name and new history – and I'm sure you've never seen her out of that adorable costume she usually wears."

Guy's eyes were like saucers by now and he stared, open-mouthed at Harley while Joker's words sunk in. Joker tolerated it for a moment, then grasped Guy's jaw and swivelled his head back around to face him.

"So I'm going to forgive you." He said benevolently and stood back up.

Guy blinked as he absorbed the words. "I'll – n-never do it again!" He promised and Joker chuckled.

"Well, I know that! Shake?" And offered his free hand to Guy who, after a very long pause, took it tentatively by the fingertips and allowed Joker to give it a jerk. When he survived the contact, an expression of disbelieving relief began to wash over his face. Joker savoured it for a second.

"The thing is, Guy – " he went off on another tack, turning away from the basketball player and pacing, waving the gun about in his hand. "Thing is – there's just one problem. And that is you've seen me at – well," and he glanced down at himself. "Not exactly at my best." It was true. The Joker was wearing black slacks and a green, button-down suit shirt. "This is a fashion faux-pas the likes of which has not been seen since Bjork and that swan monstrosity at the Oscars. Now, understandably, I've been subjected to reduced circumstances of late, so it wasn't something I could really help. However, there's simply no way I can walk out of here, leaving you with the ability to splash this awful and damaging information all over the internet – or worse yet, to the cops! It could be – " he paused and tapped his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. " – deleterious to my reputation!" and he beamed at Guy, a full one-hundred watt smile. And yeesh, he'd forgotten his broken crown as well. Yep, the kid had to die.

"I-I-I w-won't tell a-anyone, I s-swear!" Guy stammered, holding his hands up in front of himself protectively and Joker cocked his gun and giggled.

"No. That you won't. Nice knowin' ya, Guy," he said and braced himself for the recoil.

"NO!"

Startled, Joker looked up. It was Harley. Harley had pushed herself off the wall and was standing there, staring at him with a look of grim determination on her face.

"Harls?" He queried, confused. What was going on? He'd put her back together right – he was sure of it.

"I can't let ya do it, Mistah J." she said staunchly, striding across the hall to where Joker and Guy were in the living room, Guy kneeling on the plush pile rug and Joker towering above him.

Joker was momentarily unsure how to play it. Shoot Guy? Shoot Harley? Shoot Harley _then _Guy or shoot Guy _then _Harley? But Harley could be very quick – she could conceivably stop him.

By then Harley had drawn up to his elbow and was pouting up at him unwaveringly, hands on hips.

"Give me the gun, Puddin'." She said firmly and he laughed at her. She _had_ to be joking!

Guy took opportunity of their distraction to lurch to his feet, making a break for the door.

"No!" Harley shrieked, and gave him a quick kick in the gut, sending him sprawling on the hall tiles. Joker watched with astonishment as Guy squealed like a pig, then Harley had spun around and snatched the gun from his hand, faster than he could blink, and aimed it between Guy's eyes, standing there with her legs spread and the gun gripped between both hands.

"Sorry Guy – ya shoulda known, this pie is Puddin's!" She declared, a vicious glee in her voice he hadn't heard in _such_ a long time.

Then she pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the quiet apartment, bouncing off the walls like the ringing of a bell. Guy flew backwards, slumping lifeless to the floor, a mess of blood and brain matter splattering the tiles.

Joker turned to Harley, his jaw slack with impressed surprise. His girl stood, panting, her face spattered with blood. As he watched she grinned slyly at him, lifted the gun to her lips and blew across the smoking barrel.

"Anythin' for you, Mistah J." she said sweetly.

Now _that_ was sexy.

He threw back his head and shrieked with triumphant, delighted laughter, it ricocheting off the walls as sharp as the gunshot just moments before. He doubled over in his mirth, slapping one knee and leaning heavily on the back of Guy's white leather sofa for support.

Then he opened his arms up to his Harley and she came bouncing into them and he hoisted her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. He squeezed her tight and laughed as she pattered kisses all over his chin and neck.

"That's my girl!" He chuckled. "Daddy's so proud!"

"Aw, Puddin'!" she simpered and blinked up at him adoringly. "Can we go pay a visit to Amy now? She has been _such _a tyrant lately!"

Still laughing cheerily, he carried Harley towards the door, stepping over Guy's prone figure as he did so.

"You know, this outfit is cute and all, Harley, but I can think of another one you wear better." He remarked and she squealed and hugged him tighter.

And then, after that – it would be time to reunite with Darling Batman. He could hardly wait.

**---**

_Well. That was fun. Heh. Hope you enjoyed the ride._

_I am very keen to portray Joker accurately. He is a very difficult character to "get" and I can easily accept I may very well be "off" about things, so your constructive criticism is very much welcomed._

_The women Joker is referring to in the middle section of this chapter are all from canon._

_The first – Terry – can be found in the mini-series _Batman: Secrets_, collected in a trade paperback._

_The second – Cassandra – can be found in the mini-series _It's Joker Time.

_The third – Jewelee – is currently appearing by Joker's side in the mini-series _Salvation Run_. The series is not yet over so this section is based only on what we've seen so far of their interaction (though I've fabricated the blowjobs and Joker's rumours) so it could be canonically incorrect soon enough._

_The fourth is Jeannie, of course, from _The Killing Joke. _Remember, her existence is not considered definite._

_And the fifth is Rebecca, from the mini-series _Going Sane_, soon to be released in trade paperback._

_You should read all these stories, if you have not already done so._


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